


Masters at Their Crafts

by LeafAdrift (Sillyleaf)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood, Broken mirror - Freeform, Ears, Gen, Justice, MCiT, Modern Girl in Thedas, Momquisitor, Original Character(s), Sailor - Freeform, Scene Switch, Skilled Trades, So many stairs, Spirits, Surprise girly-girl, Tall Women, Tattoos, Templars (Dragon Age), carpenter - Freeform, chase scene, go to bed children, older inquisitor, rifts in the skin, secrets passages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24912067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sillyleaf/pseuds/LeafAdrift
Summary: Silvi is just a carpenter. Her hands are rough but precise, dextrous and skilled. Its been 20 years and it is time to step closer to the story, where some friends have gathered and a wolf doesn't know what to make of her.Mavis is too old for a glowing hand and magic shenanigans. She just wants to get back to her forge and her family's farm. The life she worked hard to make.  But apparently a middle-aged dwarf is needed to keep the world from imploding. And the inner circle from toddling off into danger. Honestly! Does no one but the bald elf sleep at regular intervals???
Comments: 93
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A tale with a few faces, and a narrator that's a little untrustworthy.

_ The years are twined. When she ends I begin again and we are made bound. I consumed her, kept her in the broken cracks of my own soul. Her sparkling knowledge melding my pieces together. She is no more, no separate thoughts, but I know as she did. Tongue now familiar. Faces I can pick out, names tasted, meaning engulfed.  _

_ I don’t belong here. But I am part of this world now. And there is burning. Fire all around me. Blood and pain. My first breath is filled with smoke. The first thing I taste is copper, blood on my tongue. My ears burn with pain and I scream through sobs until someone finds me and I’m being dragged somewhere. Fear consumes me and I am engulfed by someone, holding me and drawn into their lap. Through tears I see blurred and smoke smudged faces. Concerned and pitying eyes that reach to pry my hands away from my ears, where blood seeps between my fingers. I scream and flail and then gasp and begin to fade into the darkness.  _

_ “Oh Da’len. Curse them…curse them.” A voice old and familiar and safe -the Hah’ren- says with grief and anger. But I can’t say anything as the lights go out and I find myself in a dream. My first day in Thedas was not pleasant. _

_ …… _

Sun catches in her hair, dappling across tightly twisted braids of thick silver hair. Each row pulled back into a coil at the base of her neck. A kerchief, some fine silk that’s bright but aged is tied across her forehead, her ears tucked underneath with the knot hidden under the coil of her metallic hair. Seagulls cry out as the ship sails into harbor, her rough hands sure and steady in the netting as she lays sights on Kirkwall. 

“Flags up! Ease up on the sails! Slow into the lower docks!” A crowing sound, and a raven lands to her left, shifting and irritable, she casually releases hold and balances with a leg and bare toes tangled in the nets in lieu of her hands which are occupied retrieving the small missive from the raven’s leg. It squawks, pecks at her fingers because it is a Kirkwall raven and thus an asshat winged-rat, and flies off with not a fuck to give. “Looks like we got big shits in the trading ports Cap’n!” 

Isabela taps fingers at the wheel, making a slow turn for the outer docks. They’d stir up a boring fuss of pomp if they sailed into the long docks. It would be better to go farther down to shadier and older ports. “Varric said he’d meet us at the Hanged Man. Owes me a nice tall drink.” 

“Cap’n if you let me, I’d tag along just to see the chest hair you rave about.” They’re bantering as the crew preps the ship. The woman in the crow’s nest keeps her pale eyes sharp on the harbour as they pass through the terrifying statues and edge around a group of small fishing boats. Until they ease into port and drop anchor tying off the ship. The lower docks area looks like a cesspit of deviant activity. Home sweet home for some.

“Silvi dear, come down. Preferably slowly so I can watch you.” A few of the crew are dealing with the shoring procedures, and hashing out the details for a week in port. The sails have been folded and ropes are being inspected and wrapped in tidy loops.

“Sorry to say Cap’n I wore pants today!” The woman crawls down and laughs as Isabela hums in mock disappointment, staring none too subtly at her arse. Really, Silvi had become used to Isabela, and it was just a game. The looks, the flirting, the innuendo, not the world. The world was very real. Thedas hadn’t been a game in a very long time. 

“Such a shame, where’s that skirt I got you in Antiva?” Silvi hopped down the last few rungs and Isabela craned her neck to look up at the tall woman who was a giant among mere mortals. The skirt as mentioned was not a monstrosity befit for the fires of Mordor but it was very ...frilly, with little hearts on the trim. It also fit Silvi about as well as any normal clothes which meant it was short. Isabela skirt short. Silvi had worn it several times but stopped after Gregory, may he rest in peace, stared too hard and walked himself overboard. 

Gregory had been a good man. Bit of a jokester, good with his hands. Couldn’t really fault his death, heart attack in a whorehouse. 

“It’s in my pack, figured I’d hit the town in that blouse I grabbed and my good pants. Finish up with the stiffs Cap’n and I’ll pretty myself up all for you and this Varric guy.”

“OOOoo~ Are we in the mood for some confusion? One last laugh before you abandon me?” The theatrics were a bit over the top and Isabela trotted off to deal with the last few details of actually running a ship. Drab stuff that the Rivaini captain would never admit to being good at. 

The sun was still high in the sky, the smell of salt mingled with rot, fish, piss and stale booze. Kirkwall! Silvi began uncoiling her hair, letting waist-length rows fall heavy. Past the glare of the sun, ripped through the blue was a scar, slowly bleeding out in the air. The breach, sealed in a temporary way, and Haven still standing for now. Heart hammering, she chews her lower lip. This was expected and yet… 20 years. Blights, and betrayals. Wardens, Champions. Explosions. Mages against Templars. She’d skirted around, helped from the edges, kept alive for the most part. Dying being a painful thing that was unpleasant in the best of times. 

The cabins below deck are busy with crew packing up or trading stories. Making deals for work shifts in port that would give them each time onshore. She was cramped below deck, ducking down with a few ever childish crewmates pausing to laugh as they often did. She’d hit her head far too many times. Dirk, a handsome elf with Ferelden roots, had taken pity and traded his bunk at the base of the stairs after she’d taken a header into a support beam during a storm and bled like a pig across the upper deck. Now it was only an awkward amble down the stairs, into her bunk on the left. A storage hold in reality with a bedroll. 

Chucking her sea-worn clothes on a barrel top, Silvi sighs, raising her left arm in the light, her dark skin adorned with several intricate patterns with animals and vines twined around in the gaps. The skin is raised in areas not marked, patches of flesh scarred by fire, long healed but still discoloured. The patches of scar tissue continue across her broad shoulders, the back of her neck and a spot along her lower left jaw is also marked. Everyone on the ship had seen them. None of them knew where they came from and most of them were polite enough not to ask. The few that asked never asked again.

“Hey Sil, Cap’n is waiting. Said if you don’t get up there she’ll steal all the good men.” There is no privacy on a ship, and Tabitha just walks right in leaving the door half-open. Thankfully Silvi had changed and was just loosely tying back a few of the front box braids, using a scrap of cloth to tie them off in the back while the rest were left free.

“Yep, grabbing my things. How’s the hair? Everything covered? No slips?” She would have spun if there were room. 

“Your third button is undone, and you're good. Ya really leaving?” Tabitha stepped in closer, her sun-baked face set in a scowl as she re-buttoned the soft linen off white blouse. 

“Seems so. Isabela said something ‘bout me to this Varric fellow. Got me an offer with this Inquisition thing, just starting up. They need a good carpenter and I love this work but damn it I miss building, carving, working a good grain.” 

“Don’t we all!” Tabitha laughs with Silvi and soon the former ship’s carpenter is ready with her worldly possessions condensed to two packs a horse could carry. Onward to everything she’d spent the past 20 years avoiding and alternatively preparing for. 

Gods, she really needed a drink. 

At least… Varric~!?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An elf, a human and a dwarf walk into a bar... trouble ensues.

_ There is history here, chains heavy, hanging from gaunt shadow wrists, filed in and lost to despair. Feeding hate, tending fires of Rage. Desire, hopes lost and the last desperation. Burning Justice away to Vengeance. Kirkwall swirls with thick miasma. Cloying and itchy. Dreams are dangerous for an old Nightmare lingers, Fear and Hunger, wasteful Greed. Sloth and Cowardice.  _

_ Ages of history and beneath a network of tempting tunnels, but lower still roads lost, dead wandering, seals and secrets. I smile at the pale man. He waves back with claw hooked hands. Isabela doesn’t see them. Nor do most. My ears burn here, throbbing with cries across layered ages of maleficent corruption and twisted rules.  _

_ Into the Hanged Man. And the pale man bows, dissipating. Creepy fucker.  _

\--

Varric doesn’t make his presence immediately known. He lingers in earshot as Rivaini and her companion enter. There’s a shift, a tension and wary change in volume that tells him Isabela has dragged in an unfamiliar face. Someone that has made a few of the patrons place their guards up. He can’t see them yet but Isabela orders drinks and asks after him. 

“Cap’n I’m not a chair. Or a horse, quit ridin’ me.” The accent has a hint of Orlesian. There’s a thunk and laughter from the whole bar follows Isabela’s surprised yelp. Someone gives a sharp whistle, others smack tankards against tables, the tension breaks and the volume increases in the Hanged Man. Whoever they are, they’ve made themselves welcomed. That just means they’re trouble. The best sort with any luck. “No worries Cap’n I saved your ale.” 

“Sil, that was dirty.” 

The right type of trouble. 

Varric has got to see what’s going on so picks up his forever unfinished ale and slowly ambles around from the back corner but pauses not exactly sure what to say to the sight. It might make an interesting scene or get him censored for lewd depictions of something. How would he even word what he’s seeing and make it sound believable? 

There is a giant with a familiar Rivaini’s legs flailing in the air above and behind the stranger’s head. Sitting placidly sipping on their drink and tossing table snacks in their mouth. Isabela’s upper torso is wedged between the back of the chair and the giant’s back. Her arms somehow angled through the open lower rungs of the chair’s back. Hilarious. “Hey Cap’n wiggle your foot, a dwarf with excellent chest hair just walked in. That’s your friend right?” There is a string of swearing and the giant doesn’t bat an eye as Isabela flails. 

“Uhhh, not sure this is the place Rivaini. Maybe take it to the Rose?” He still is confused but Isabela isn’t protesting nearly enough to signal true distress. Something picks at Varric’s brain, something he isn’t picking up on fully. 

Cormick decides to stumble over. He’s smirking. Dirty teeth, and bloodshot eyes. Flushed with alcohol and a little too stupid to keep himself out of trouble. Varric opens his mouth to warn Isabela and the giant before a fight breaks out but a steel-edged voice rings through the whole joint. They don’t move to act or intercede but Varric notes that their pale silver-blue eyes narrow, glowing in the dim interior lights. Not like Blondie’s more like Broody’s or Daisy’s. Oh… Well, that was interesting. 

Their voice booms, once again not like Anders or Justice or their maniacal tantrum-throwing Vengeance demon child. Small mercies. Varric would take an angry giant elf over Vengeance any day. “Touch her and I will crush you.” Not a threat. A promise. Varric feels it, a shiver of death. Some strange power of presence that is alarming but dissipates just as quickly as it comes. Now he’s very curious about the simple carpenter the Inquisition is taking on. 

The laughter and revelry turn silent, eyes on Cormick with his hand frozen in the act of going for an unasked for feel of the Rivaini’s ass. The incongruencies begin to make sense. Varric knows that Isabela isn’t one to let herself be exposed and vulnerable though she may act the part it’s always a trap. Her daggers are never far, probably even in reach in the bedroom. But as she was, her arms are caught up at awkward angles. Vulnerable, with little view of the space around her. That spoke volumes about the guy she’d brought along.

“Oi Cormick sit yer arse down! Fuckin’ ruinin’ da fun!” Maryanne hollers and chucks a stale wedge of bread at the human who steps back with hands raised protectively. Face replete with fear. 

“Sil I’m sorry, you are not a chair. Now let me up? Safeword!” 

“Safeword? Really?” Silvi snickers and stands up but grabs one of Isabela’s legs and spins the much smaller human into a standing position. That was some strength. Varric figured Cullen would be eyeballing them as a potential recruit. 

“Varric, save me from this beast! Take them away. Far from my ship before I desperately ravage them.” The blood had rushed to her head. She was blushing and playing the situation up. All theatrics. 

“I don’t think she’s going to give introductions in that state… I’m Silverite Hale, Master Carpenter.” Silvi held out a hand and Varric shook it, noting the callouses, and scars. Well worn, working hands. Clothes were decent, broad shoulders, shirt a bit loose, simple linen but clean. A working man who made enough cash to afford more than scraps but not enough for excessive finery or they didn’t feel the need to flaunt their wealth. 

“Varric Tethras, storyteller, rogue and occasional…”

“Seeker’s ragdoll?” 

That on certain days was closer to the truth than Varric cared to admit. Right in the book. “Awww were you worried Rivaini? I’m touched!” 

  
“For you? Hardly. But I heard sweet Bianca was commandeered, placed in an impossibly dusty box.” 

“You do care, I’ll take it, and Bianca is doing just fine.” His fingers ran over a curving edge. Silvi leaned forward, excited to finally meet Varric and his precious hardware. “ There’s still daylight, could use your opinions on a bit of remodelling.” 

Silvi grinned, reaching under the table to retrieve her packs. “Ah, that local issue you wrote about?”

“Varric, I believe you’re catching flies.” Isabela reached to pinch Varric’s chin but he swatted away her hand. 

What did you feed someone to grow them that big? As if the man (who was not, in fact, a man) could read Varric’s thoughts he (SHE!) hunched over, their eyes staring at the table. A single finger to his lips silences his fantastically witty remark before he could speak. Isabela hugged him, stroking Bianca but placing lips at his ear. “Take care of my girl Varric. She’s full of surprises.”

The words were heard. Singing through Varric’s skull. What he saw, and what he heard though were having a severe disagreement. Somewhat like the time, Bethany’s storm spell went a little wide causing him to twitch randomly for the next several hours. Without the static charged chest hair. “Why are all the women around me giants? Hawke, Aveline, Sunshine, then the Seeker.”

“Well, you are a dwarf. It’s not hard, and that chest hair is just begging to be petted.” Silvi teased, “I’d give you some of my height if I could, the head trauma is terrible.” Isabela snickered because she’d seen first hand. 

“Oh, there’s a few stories there. Come on you can tell them on the way. We’ll drop your bags at my place.” 

...

Cold stone, ringed in black scars. A home made and destroyed among the sudden fire. Silvi watches the rivers of pain. Folded memories, warped and distorted by suffering. Kirkwall is healing, but the scars cut deep, open and too soon to rule out infection. 

“Oh...this is… I worked on a piece here, before the Blight.” Silvi’s eyes widen. It had been years ago, an old couple. Her ears ring as they come up to Hawke’s former home. It had been the Amell estate when last she was here. The pale man stands in the corner of her vision no matter how she tilts her head. So long as it just observed there would be no issues. 

“Wait? I would know if there was ever a silver-haired giant elf in high town.”

“Would have been when I was just getting a name for my crafting skills. I was young, lanky, awkward and not yet a mountain. I used to crop my hair and dye it black. Hide my ears under a ridiculous knitted cap with earflaps and dangles. You are very observant Master Tethras. Took Cap’n a whole month at sea before she noticed.” It had been during the first few years of working constantly, moving around, trying to avoid being too close to history. It had not done a great deal of good. 

  
  


Isabela shoves the door open and Silvi is hit by nostalgia, memories of a game, an escape, merged with really being in this place. “Ya that bannister is my work. Held up pretty good.”

“Oh yes, it is very stable, so is the table, and the desk upstairs.” As if to make a point Isabela leans back against the bannister, back arched, hands over her head. 

So Varric, and a secret bit of work?

He’d wandered off into a side room that served as an office. Following Silvi watched the man rummage around and begin rapping his knuckles on each of the wooden wall panels until one sounded hollow. Oh…

“These panels were here years ago, that likely means that was also here right?” 

“You tell me, I can’t find a lock, and it might just be a hollow spot, figured you could get the panel off without damaging too much.” 

“Ha, I can do that. Easy enough.” Silvi pulls out a cloth bundle and unfurls it, fine tools, knives and hammers, and other bits collected and found useful. “I can already see why it isn’t opening, humidity looks like the wood swelled over the years.” Silverite crouches down, and Varric gets to watch her work. The praise Isabela had given was well-founded as the woman worked at the panel with thin tools. There was a click, and Silvi grabs a hooked needle, pulling wire through a thin gap. “Trap’s neutralized”

“Just that easy eh Tools?” 

Tools… Was that? Silvi’s mind explodes momentarily. Had she just earned a ridiculous Varric nickname? “Tools?”

“Yah, never seen a carpenter with so many. Hammer is normally enough.” Fair enough. Silvi did keep a lot of specialized tools. As close to what she had before Thedas.

“Cap’n we’re going explorin’ you coming?” Placing her tools away Silvi pushes the panel at two corners, and it pops open, showing a dusty staircase. 

Secret passages, creepy steps, mysteries from before the Amell estate fell into disrepair. The game had certainly skipped over a lot. 

Silvi glances around, the pale man has disappeared. 

That was probably a doom flag, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated!
> 
> Mavis: Yes, let's just wander down mysterious staircases without telling anyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And down the stairs, each party goes.

_ Secrets buried. Deep in old bones. The stone sings songs as the trees tell tales. Somewhere there is home, out of reach as the glow spreads. Promise on the tongue, hope hidden in lines and scars. Sad solitude, looking for small solace.  _

_ Where can the stone go? When the forest is burning it can only wait, sheltering the young seeds in shade.  _

\-------

  
  


The stairs are old stone, cobbled and slick with moss, and yet they are evenly spaced, with wide tops, easy to step down with the whole boot. They meander downwards with broken pottery scattered in odd corners. There’s evidence of fennec foxes and rats. Possibly nugs. Horrible five-fingered abominations. 

The air is stale, a scent of decay and standing water. Tree roots have bitten through from the surface,  dangling or running paths between blocks of stone. Everything has the feel of age. This is an old place. Ancient. It is also dark, too dark for humans to navigate.

There’s a hand on her shoulder, she doesn’t mind but even elves and dwarfs can’t see in the absolute dark.

“Allow me.” 

Green flame, the memory of fire, ignites in the brazer to the right. The old elven ruin is lit in fade green. A match to the mark. The light catches on the silver streaks that twine through Mavis’ loosely tied hair. “Thanks, Solas” Cassandra’s hand moves away but before it can pull out of reach Mavis grabs it. Their gauntlets clink together. “Seeker Cassandra, please follow close. I want your shield and sword at my back.” She could make out a protest, a scowl, a sigh, then Cassandra nods with thin-lipped acceptance, her hand returning to Mavis’ pauldron. The Seeker’s attention shift to the torch Solas is carrying.

“What manner of fire is that?” It wasn’t giving off heat, as Solas held it up, lighting the path ahead. 

“It’s veil fire” 

“It's a memory flame.” 

Solas and Mavis replied to the Seeker at the same time. Solas took over, explaining as Mavis shrugs and starts once more down the stairs with Mihris taking the lead. The fact the dwarf Herald knew what the flame was, did not escape Solas’ notice. His eyes watched her, apparently more than the steps as he stumbled on loose cobble and slick moss, flame dancing as he recovered his balance. 

“What brought you to these ruins Mihris?” The Dalish mage had been fending off a demon, causing a mighty amount of noise as electricity sparked off stones. 

“I was… am, first of clan Virnehn. I left in service to my clan and saw that great tear in the veil on my journey. I know more of magic and the veil than any shemlen and hoped to help.” 

Solas paused, tips of his ears twitching. “Ma harel, da'len," 

“Yes well… demons ahead. Best we stop talking.” Mihris was a bit too eager to run from Solas, and the conversation. It didn’t matter as demons shrieked their presence. Cassandra lifted her shield and Mavis unlatched a massive sword from her back. The weight settled in her hands. 

“At my back Cass. I need a good guard. Solas support please.” Mavis launched herself down the last few steps, heavy boots drawing the notice of the wraiths and shades. Inhaling through the nose, chest filling in with the air, Mavis growls out a challenge, “O’er ‘ere ya twice-baked biscuit trolls!” 

Cassandra snorts, nearly tripping over her own feet. Solas lets out a single chuckle. This is the supposedly divinely chosen Herald. Bearing the mark that can mend the sky. An old dwarf with terrible insults. “Herald must you?!” There was no venom to Cassandra’s words though there was just a light sprinkling of embarrassed disgust. 

“Ey if it works!” And it did because two Wraiths and the two shades vying for Mavis who weaved under the hooked claws of the wraith’s swipes. Following with a spinning swing of her two-handed sword. A barrier glimmers and shatters instantly as the wraith bombards her with shots. Mihris is dealing with them, keeping them moving. 

Cass intercedes, her sword over Mavis’ head, where the Herald hits low Cassandra surprises with an attack from up high. Bashes her shield against the second wraith and pushes it back. Mavis growls and shouts. Inches from claws, cleaving into the wraith with a halo of red. Slam, foot to the core, push back and pivot, use the weapon’s weight, slice deep into the demon. It screams. Finished off quickly. 

The Seeker rounds on the second and Solas provides a shield as she parries, beautiful and fierce. Arm a long line that leads and follows her attacks with a shield that pushes forward and up throwing off the Wraith. Taking ground not giving it. 

The fight ends. No injuries. Mihris has already got her hands into ancient artefacts. Mavis grunts and looks to Solas but nods her head towards the First Keeper of such and such clan. 

"Ma Halani. Ma Glandival. Vir Enasalin.” Solas smiles and it sends the poor elf into trembling shivers. She drops an amulet into Solas outstretched hand and makes a hasty retreat. 

Cassandra starts back up the steps, hand on the wall. Mavis lingers looking at the rune on the wall, and the artefact glowing with magic. “You said it’s a fire rune? Huh…” 

“It is indeed. Something of interest Herald?” Solas is at her side, tracing the shape with his eyes. When his curved finger rests on his chin, his ears lay flat. It really isn’t noticeable in most elves, especially Solas which was a shame because teasing the fade mage would have been fun.

“No, just think I’ve seen it somewhere before.” A final look. Her face etched with small scars and wrinkles scowls. They, unfortunately, don’t have time to linger any longer. 

It's good to get out of the ruin, sun and warmth, clean air. “I think that’s it for the day. We can’t do much without horses for everyone.” They had a long walk back to the nearest camp. The Crossroads was on the way. It would delay them but Mavis manages to take down a few rams with Solas and Cassandra. It wasn’t much but it would give the struggling people something. 

“Hunting would have been easier with Varric.” Mavis growls and shifts the weight of the ram slung across her shoulders. The other is across her horse’s back with their packs. Cassandra has its lead. 

“He is likely getting drunk and telling ridiculous tales in Kirkwall. I do not know why Lelianna insisted he acquires and escorts a simple carpenter. There are many who could build the towers with Cullen’s soldiers.” The horse snorts as if it knows something Cass does not. 

“Such is the lot of life. Let him laugh it up in Kirkwall. We’ll put him to work once he’s had his fun.”

….

“Tools!” Varric yells in warning. 

A pendulum of doom swings past Silvi’s face. Not even an inch from being split open. She steps back, losing her balance. Isabela takes a quick step to the side to avoid a collision and something clicks under her heel. 

“Oops…”

“FUCK!” 

They were not having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *grins*
> 
> Well we went down some stairs~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This party is not balanced but it sure is fun. Or not.

_ When I was young once more, I was too old. Hahren said the trauma aged me, made me grow up fast. Hair black as night, to moon pale silver. Too tall, too strong, too smart. Proud and fearful links broken one by one. She cannot stay. Draws eyes to our shadows. Speaks to the night like a friend. _

_ Marriage promise, simple cover. He knew me, swift, unbound. Never saw the false groom. Travel and a new name, so easy to hide when they see wrong. World of men and my crafter’s hands. Shape wood and tell the tales of trees. A fox in the burrow, hunt or scavenge. Clever friend or chaotic fiend? Whispers, draw me through dreams. I like to hum back. Soft. Subtle. Offers and trades.  _

_ The pale man wants a deal.  _

\--

Yuck. 

She could do explosions. Dust and ash and flames. 

She could tolerate blood, guts spilling out, even brain matter.

There was a lot of filth in the world and Isabela could tolerate most of it.

But Isabela drew a very hard line at whatever the tacky slime coating her was. It was in her smalls!!!

A slurp of the viscous liquid drips off the end of Varric’s broad nose. The same black bile is dripping from Silvi and Isabela in copious amounts. Isabela reaches down her front to fish out a heavy handful of slime. She shivers, cringes at the unpleasant mucous consistency..“Can we turn back yet?” The glob hits the wall with all the spite Isabela can muster, it makes a disturbing shucking sound and very slowly crawls down the stones. Not literally, it’s not a slime monster those thankfully don’t exist in Thedas. As far as Silvi knows at least.

“This _was_ my good shirt…” It had been _clean_ but Silvi doubted the scorch marks or the patches of grey stains from coagulated acid would come out. It was disgusting but better than the alternative. Which was of course death by burning acid. Because this goop was once in fact corrosive. Silvi examines the cauldron that’d tipped over them. “We’re lucky but I really don’t feel lucky…” 

Not only had this damn place tried to slice them apart, then flame broil and shish kebab them, it has also tried to strip the flesh from their bones. Wonderful. This was heroic adventurer class dungeon mayhem. Silvi did not sign up for any of this. Her teeth clenched and she may have kicked a broken pot across the room. It was cathartic.

“We’re covered in gunk Tools.” Varric takes out a cloth to clean Bianca. Her inner workings in need of a deep clean. Everyone took a moment to try to scrape off remnants of ooze and collect themselves. They were tired. Running from place to place. A puzzle and a maze of traps. Too far to turn back without some sort of satisfaction. Varric is also concerned. His eyes dart to Silvi. Handling the chaos a bit too well. Just a carpenter? The Nightingale had sent him with information on a pesky unauthorized reprinting of his works, a stack of supply requests from Ruffles, and information to look into using his own contacts. On an off chance, he’d mentioned…. Damn. Hale. Master carpenter Hale, the minute he’d said that name Nightingale had added acquiring a carpenter to the stack. But not just any carpenter she had been very subtle he’d admit, but she’d effectively insisted on Silvi. Now he was curious. 

Silvi had no clue that Varric was internally taking notes on her.“Gunk that was once acid. I use a similar diluted mixture to acid etch wood. It congeals and goes inert after about a year exposed to air...so at least we know no one has been maintaining all these traps.” Swinging pendulums of doom should have been more than enough to warn away the casual snoop. Surely flame glyphs and spike traps would scare off the rest or kill them? Apparently they were dealing with a hoarder of traps. Some aficionado of deadly mechanisms, or someone really paranoid of anyone getting to what’s at the end. 

Isabela curses, finger-combing her hair that sticks together in ugly clumps. The Rivaini opens her eyes wide and puckers her lower lip. “Silvi dear. Sparkling gem of the sea. Please?” Silvi knows exactly what the woman is asking for. She can feel a headache starting as Varric looks up, curious as to what is going on. 

“Got a tool for sticky situations?” A chunk of congealed and expired death acid chose that moment to splatter off of Varric’s elbow and onto the floor. “Because I’m all ears.”

A groan. Silvi begins rolling up her sleeves. Isabela hums, absolutely pleased because she is getting exactly what she wants and nearly dances over to Silvi. Darting under a half-hearted punch from Silvi. 

“Uhhh you know I was joking right Tools?” Silvi smirks and shrugs. They’d asked, and Isabela was just going to whine worse than Varric. Her arms catch the dwarf’s attention. Scrawled runes along her skin, that begin to glow as she casts a cleansing spell. The air warps in a weird magical way. Blood and gunk collect and rise above them, then the weird bubble of magic bursts and all the filth rockets towards the opposite wall. 

“So much better Silvi. My smalls are saved!” Isabela sings and kisses Silvi on the cheek. Isabela doesn’t hesitate to begin rolling down Silvi’s sleeves, hiding the artwork and appreciating the taunt muscles.

“Cap’n… nothing can save your smalls.” Silvi ducks away from a blow, laughing along with Isabela. They lean on each other. 

“So… a mage?” The Rivain people were known for tattoos and piercings but Varric had never heard of magical tattoos. Broody didn’t count. He was more of a grumpy living enchantment. Silvi had made motions, cast an actual spell. He didn’t hear a reply but did catch a sigh while the woman walked past him. Isabela shot him a look. Okay. It was enough to tell him that Tools had her secrets and she didn’t want to discuss this one. _Yet._

The walls are old architecture. Matching the older regions of the city. Too old for the Amell’s to have secretly built a death trap. “I’m pretty sure the uhh... Amell’s never went past the iron door in the first chamber. Looks like it was just a wine cellar.” Silvi isn’t sure if they even knew the door was there. A large wooden wine rack blocked it from view.

“There were some good vintages. Hawke’ll need to throw a party.” Not that Isabela knew where Hawke and Bethany were. She most definitely was not going to steal away a few bottles to share with them. Varric bumps her arm and the two rogues lower their voices to talk and laugh. It leaves Silvi with the torch to scout ahead. 

A lingering presence hangs in the air. It is lukewarm, sad, bored, curious. Watching them through the veil. Silvi ducks under a spider web, treading carefully. With Varric and Isabela at her back and following, Silvi draws mana to her centre. The world’s colours shift and cloying chains of Kirkwall float through the air. The pale man is at her side. The magic here is heavy, choking. Trauma and twisted things. The pale man is a twisted spirit, both memory and concept. Not evil, just sick. Seeking something. Stomach dropping out, feeling weightless for a moment the impressions strike her. Poetry given substance and shape. 

_ Reflections. Coiling intent, need, and passion. Vengeance quelled, regret heavy. Something lingers broken. Needing it reaches, voices a plea.  _

A wisp, a request, Silvi nods once and closes her glowing eyes. The world returns. Varric is digging for information from Isabela. So far Isabela has revealed that Silvi hits her head a lot and gets headaches just as frequently. His next question is interrupted. “Oi, I think...this is the end?”

There’s a door with several locks. “That’s overkill. Someone’s compensating~”

Varric begins working the mechanisms. Isabela supervises which is a nice way to say she badgers Varric as he works. Silvi leans against the wall and does not mention that the door hinges are on the outside and they could just pop the pins out. 

“This whole place is overkill.” The door clicks open. Bianca noses into the room ahead of Varric. Nothing explodes. So far so good.

The room is lined with shelves of dusty books, tomes and two chests with large locks. Tempting treasures. Silvi can feel a pulse of magic from several items. Old, moth and time eaten drapes, once deep red hang across the walls. There’s a stand that holds a mage staff made of scorched wood, the focus is a small animal skull with large rubies set in the eye sockets. A desk with an overflowing sack of old, Imperium coins, pours out across the floor. Varric recognizes the branding on the few by his boot. This place is definitely from the days of slave trading and Magisters. “Is that…”

“Shit, what’s that doing here?”

Standing tall and pristine in the corner of the room. A spectacle of ancient, and ornate elvhen craftsmanship. A filigree of gold surrounds a wobbling reflective surface. It hums invitingly. Silvi’s ears ring, she gasps, pain pulling a curse from her lips. Too much. Too close. Her teeth grind together as she confirms exactly what Isabela and Varric suspect.

“An eluvian.” 

The glass distorts. Light brushing all corners of the room. A mist coils and suffuses everything. The pale man smiles from within. Raises a hand, and waves. He has been following since Lowtown. On the cusp of Silvi’s vision except when taunting or trying to make a deal. Invisible to others. Silvi doesn’t react. The last thing she needs is to start talking to herself. 

Varric and Isabela, however, do see. They dive forward, angry. Too angry. “Blondie!” 

“Anders!” and they disappear into the eluvian. 

The surface ripples and Silvi stares at the mirror. They saw something. The mist in the room tries to coil into her. It rises and meets a barrier. Her sleeves begin to burn away, the glyphs on her arms activating with the threat. She can feel the echo. Wrath, anger. They were being manipulated.

Why does trouble always find her?

Her eyes dart around, searching. She grabs the staff with the fox skull and dives in after the troublesome rogues. 

Anders? Fuck.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chase is on. Where will they be led? Doom or Destiny?

_ Follow me, through fade slip, shaded secrets and serene songs. Dreams disturbed as I make my own. Through paths long lingering. Lonely. I am broken, banished. Torn and pieced together. Separation of my being realigned for my worth and will. Now we resonate, in the dreamscape. Hum, sing, speak for torn ears.  _

_ At the Crossroads, searching between what I was and what I became. Once and now, before and further. Across to where the gun clicks slow. Last lingering, knowing who once was is gone and that who I took is memory and I am a stolen, broken thing. Held with cracks that dreams leak from. Threads clipped and stolen.  _

\------

A red murky haze over their vision palpitates. Fluttering like a heartbeat. Anger and wrath under their skin, too tight and on the verge of painful. It drives them through the headache and nausea of the foreign fade elements. Isabela stumbled, sprawls across the course broken stones and patchy colourless grass. Her hands eat into the earth, scrambling, clumsy, frantic, eyes blown wide. Varric jumps over her, continues ahead not looking back. Isabela eyes are blown wide, dark pits captured and never wavering from the figure of Anders. His face ashen, eyes blank, floating backwards. Desperate, angry, she stabs the ground and lunges forward, suddenly painted in the colours of her worst fear. Savage face, mindless beast. Broken and nameless. Chains circle her wrists, burning brands. Her hair cropped short. 

Bolts fly. Bianca fires at a rapid pace. To no avail as Anders dodges every shot. Varric’s face twists into a scowl. Captured in the effect of red heat, manipulated. Resisting and trying to find reality. Dwarf resistance to magic but not immunity. His face morphs with his struggle, from a casteless brand on his cheek, gaunt and powerless to a mirror of a man gone mad, his brother etched in the family ties that shape their faces. Hair unbound and a beard. Finery and wealth and eyes greed-filled lacking compassion. Something nags. This isn’t right. Why? 

There’s a scream, painfilled and the Fade warps in response, a moment of recognition as the haze loosens and red clouded eyes clear, turn to look back at the source. Silverite clenches a mage staff. Lines of jagged green cut across her face in a horrid display. Light leaking through. Splitting at the seams. Like a rift. There is blood on her blouse, dripping down her jaw and neck. She runs forward but something is wrong. The air around her is twisted, crackling with energy. “Wake the fuck up!” The words are biting and yet the anger ...the moment passes and Silvi is left to chase them through twisting paths, mirrors passing beyond her notice. 

Her head is spinning, the lightning pinpricks of Fade energy beat across her skin, seeping through the torn scars where she’s been stitched into flesh. A facade, stolen. Her ears are ringing, deaf under the white noise that screams in thousands of voices, memories that want to be recalled, stories that wish to be told. All at once. She summons a barrier, and slams it over her skin, tightens it until her fingers go numb. The energy stops trying to pull her to pieces. There is a glow to her eyes. Silvi runs after the two, catching up with Isabela first she goes for the tried and true impact calibration technique. It always worked on her old TV.

WHACK!

Isabela lashes out, dagger cutting a thin clear line over Silvi’s stomach. Then the dagger drops. She stumbles and blinks, holding her head, her hair drapes over her shoulders in ebony waves. “I...what the fuck is going on...owww my head… worse then…”

“No time Cap’n. Gotta wake up a dwarf and smack a dead man.” Isabela is nudged, she grabs her dagger and finally focuses on Varric. Frantic and in the middle of a nightmare. Bianca is firing but there are no bolts. The effects of the Crossroad hit her hard. Like a weight on her chest, breathing is nearly painful until Silvi extends a weak barrier. 

They give chase. “What happened?” Varric has gained distance but he has short legs. And past him is ...Anders. The anger isn’t as strong. There - but not multiplied. More complex, sadness, grief, relief, all the ways a person could feel about a friend who killed so many and then died on your lover’s dagger. Anders...but not. It couldn’t be. 

“That’s not Anders as you knew him at least… that’s a pale shadow. Lingering… something I think.” It was leading them somewhere. Probably nowhere good. Finding the mirror back was going to be near impossible. 

The pale man or Anders, or whatever else it might be darts left with Varric at its heels. It twists and a mirror warps, the surface disturbed then ducks through. Varric slams bodily into a solid reflective surface. Hand raised, it beats on the glass until he’s yanked back and his nose is pinched and yanked. Isabela leads him by the nose as his mind returns. “Jou cahn leht goh Rihvahni.” With one last flick to his abused nose, Isabela steps back. 

“That was for jumping over me.” There’s a flare behind them. Both draw their weapons. It is only Silvi, the mirror shining like liquid silver, active. She’d done magic and opened it, they assumed. 

Silvi had not in fact done anything but shrug and whisper a passphrase on a whim. Dread wolf’s blessings, this was probably a very bad idea. “I have no clue which mirror leads back, so might as well follow? Unless one of you remembers?” There is a moment where Varric looks back and Isabela brings a hand to her face massaging her head. No, of course, the bespelled rogues would not remember the paths they took while chasing a dead man. 

In any case, Silvi stepped to the side. Varric stood and stared. Isabela stepped forward but waited. No one was actually entering the mirror. Silvi was not going to lead an expedition through a mirror that could spew them further in the Fade or Crossroads or into a Dragon’s den.

“Look, I wasn’t going to make it a big deal...but I’m a carpenter.” This was crazy. This was diving too deep into magic and too close to main protagonist chaos. Silvi wanted no part in leading a storyline in Thedas. All the heroes in Thedas ended up dead, on the run or no better than they started! 

“I know that Tools. The fancy belt and woodcarving kit kind of give it away.”

“I really don’t think you do… or it’d be one of you two heading in first right about now instead of staring at me, waiting to follow a carpenter into a possible fight.” She was flailing, the shaft of the stolen staff may have smacked the back of her head. This is why she didn’t use the stupid mage beacons. Draw attention, and accidentally bludgeon yourself. “So unless you expect Dryads, maybe the two seasoned fighters who can also be sneaky should head in first and not the gaudy, oversized giant who just hit the back of her head with a borrowed staff while flailing around.” 

“She does make a very valid point. We’re also the ones who know Anders. If it really is some part of him…” Another hurt, hope with a twist. 

Varric shrugs and steps into the mirror, Bianca at the ready as the whole surface twists and ripples, consuming him. Isabela follows, in a crouch. 

Silvi lets her barrier shatter, screams in a flare of Fade energy. Surging currents forced through the rifts of her flesh. When the pain ebbs, she raises a hand, examines the fissures cutting her into a patchwork of skin. “Damnit...damnit.”

Isabela’s hand reaches back, and Silvi grabs it. Pulled through into the mortal realm where she is whole. “No monster to run from?”

“Too early in the story for that.” Varric nods to a room covered in dust and boxes, storage. There are old weapon racks. A single door with a small mirror in the corner, the faded draping torn and fallen to the floor as they entered. The door is so badly damaged that the lock falls off and it creaks open. Sharp in the silence. 

A large table with rotten legs and equally aged chairs sits central in the room beyond, The carpet is frayed, patches completely missing. A large shattered window with a few bits of glass burned black sits in the back. Outlined in the wispy dust-hazy light of red dawn is a tapestry with a familiar emblem.

Templars.

“Why would he bring us here?” Varric shakes his head. Tension in his chest as he realizes there’s a trail of footprints through the dust, leading further into the building. They aren’t alone. Would it be too much to hope they’re friendly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible with Tags. If you have a tag suggestion feel free to mention it. Haha.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More stairs. Gotta get your cardio in where you can I guess.   
> 7 years of bad luck.

_ A single shot. Piercing fast. Falling. Landing in countless pieces. Time flows differently. I am cracked, pulled, basic bits that scream and they the warped wisps hunger. Dreams heal, teach, I know them in their true forms. What am I? Singing whispers. Reflections of a world not my own. Decades, centuries? Time stilted. No waking. Only breaking. _

_ Piece by piece. Fought for. Found. Salvaged. Fitting broken shards, wrong edges and gaps. How long? I forgot. I forget. Patchwork person. Monster’s daughter. Am I what he was?  _

\--

It takes three side rooms and several hallways before Isabela spots the first Templar. Because of course, they’d be dealing with Templars and not just nervous squatters or simple bandits. In any case, the Templar is nearly drowning in sweat. They don’t look well as they pace and shake their head. Patches of bloodstain their armour, dried and brown. Varric nudges Isabela, points out a shaking hand. She’s seen this before. The first signs of lyrium withdrawal. The last thing they need to deal with is a highly trained Templar in a fevered haze of withdrawal. They could take out one target quietly. There was still a risk of noise, or a patrol finding the body. Not to mention if the Templars weren’t openly hostile now, they’d definitely become hostile. 

No one can speak. The communication is mainly between Varric and Isabela. A glance back and a shrug. Varric shifts Bianca. Isabela runs a finger along the haft of her blade. Silvi feels awkwardly out of place and sets the damn staff to the side which of course catches Varric and Isabela’s attention. Silvi doesn’t speak their silent rogue dialect but has her own hand signal which is a near-universal signal for turn around. 

Isabela relaxes as Silvi’s hand spreads across her back. This! It’d been a while and she’d forgotten that Silvi had her own bag of tricks. There had been a run-in at a smaller port and this lovely trick had gotten her away from a rather miffed Magister whose smalls she may or may not have dusted with rashvine. It was completely deserved. 

Varric for his part has to bite down several questions. At least one of which is answered soon enough. Isabela literally disappears before his eyes, and he feels a shiver of magic douse him. Ice water that coats them both presumably, and leaves Silvi the only one visible ...or not. Because she’s walking softly right in front of the Templar who looks around, confused but goes back to pacing. 

Isabela can’t see Varric but she can see Silvi. The Templar can’t see any of them. Magic makes no sense. Silvi has her hand up, staff carried in the other. Two flashes of five fingers. 10 seconds. That’s more than enough to carefully dance a jig around the Templar and duck into another room safely down the next turn. 

“That was a useful trick Tools. Would make scouting ahead easier.” There were elixirs, alchemic distractions, and other means of fading out of sight but those were for a single target that knew how to use them properly. 

“I’m a carpenter.” Best to establish that she was not going to end up with death by demonic evisceration stamped to her forehead. Dying sucks and never sticks. Her (nice, safe) trade was a carpenter. She was not a soldier. She was a mage in general terms such as being able to use magic but not in the more useful way such as being trained for magical combat against corrupted spirits or red lyrium Templars. 

“And a sailor my dear~” Isabela is not helping Silvi’s case. This whole adventure is going to land her in a combat position farting distance from a dragon. 

“Once more… I am just a carpenter. Sometimes a ship’s carpenter. Sometimes I carve intricate little flowers for rich nobles. And sometimes I make barrels or forks, or raise barns.“

Varric lets out a short laugh, and Isabela snorts. Tools was a puzzle. A sword on her hip that he suspected was ornamental and meant to keep trouble away, staff in hand, strange glyphs up her arms and an elf that could rival an Avaar’s height. Not to mention Varric had hired carpenters before and if Silvi was a master at all she’d listed from ships, to decorative wood carving to framing then she was a rarity. No wonder Lelianna had wanted to acquire her services for the Inquisition. 

Silverite’s face is stuck in a scowl. She’s about to speak when the Cap’n pokes her in the ribs. Silvi yelps high and feminine and flails against an additional barrage of precise fingers to her side. Ticklish and helpless to catch Isabela before her opposite side is assaulted. A dark blush stains her face as she bites back little squeaks of protest, through gasps of air. They’re supposed to be quiet and sneaky! This is not helping!

It's quiet enough that Varric just keeps a lookout at the door, listens for feet approaching but does nothing to intervene. It’s like watching two kids tease each other.

“Stop.” Isabela immediately withdraws her hands, self-satisfied and flushed as she bites back her own purely childish giggles. Silvi will miss this bit of easy friendship. The moment is somewhat tainted by the pale man staring from the corner. When their eyes meet he points down to the floor.  _ Underneath. Below. Secrets and hurts. Agony asking with broken fists.  _ Then he drifts down through the stone and does not stick around to lead them downstairs. 

“So...something feels off below us...magic?” There was probably a better way to phrase that. One that sounded less suspicious. Silvi just wants to see why the pesky spirit had led them into an apparent Templar haunting ground. Then get back to Kirkwall, grab her gear and maybe second-guess joining the Inquisition. 

“I haven’t seen any stairs down yet. Think you can cast that spell again Tools?” The room they’re in is moth-eaten, dusty and dark. There’s no evidence of it being cleared out or used recently. 

“I can’t maintain a spell like that for long. I can cast another short burst if we need it but I… get tired quickly. Mana?” 

“Right. Carpenter, not a trained mage.” Walking out the front door might still be an option. If Seeks or Bear were here they could get into upfront skirmishes. Chuckles would be useful to give better magical support. 

“I’m trained...for control and wards. Simple things. I’m not going to get possessed. You two were the ones who fell under that spirit’s influence.” It was very important that Varric understood she was not untrained. She did not want to end up under Templar supervision or forced into tutelage with another mage. 

That had not in fact been a concern for Varric. Now that it was mentioned though he had to accept that running around with an untrained mage was exactly the thing that could lead to another Vengeance issue. She also made a very valid point. “Point taken. How’d you resist?”

“I know wrath. And I know how to divert it.” The hall is quiet but it's best to move near the walls. They can keep in the shadows and near doors to duck into. 

“What Silvi is trying to say is that she barely resists slicing Chevaliers into mincemeat. Downright voracious.” Isabela’s hand rests on the hilt of her dagger, a loose grip but ready should trouble approach.

“I know they’re pricks, and bad for elves but not all of them…” He has a large hand over his mouth and furious,  _ glowing _ eyes of a supposed carpenter in his face. She’s bent at the waist to stare him down. And there’s something in the twist of her face, deep furrows between her brows, her lip curled and teeth on display. There’s blood on her collar and neck but with her hair in the way, he can’t see where she could have been injured. It’s a decent amount but dry. When had she been hit?

“Do not finish that sentence Storyweaver.” Isabela pulls her back and Varric raises his hands. Touchy subject. Another thing to delve into, or not. Whatever run-in she’d had… it wasn’t a good memory. Some stories aren’t meant to be told.

Silvi just couldn’t. She couldn’t hear him defend Chevaliers. Varric Tethras, the one she knows not just from the games but from Isabela’s tales, wears his heart on his sleeve though will deny it. Varric who calls a blood magic using Dalish elf, Daisy, and pays people off to keep her safe. Varric who weaves a tale to keep Hawke safe from being thrown into another heroic situation. 

“Oh look, there’s a way down. Let’s not sink teeth into the dwarf. No...let’s go investigate a dungeon of horrors just like old times. Hawke will be so jealous.” Isabela begins to work on the lock. It’s a terrible segway but it does break the tension. Varric shakes his head when Silvi turns to apologize, no harm, no foul. They’d just met. He had to unravel the story slower. You never put all the character's secrets upfront after all.

More stairs downward. Stairs do not elicit joy. They elicit stress but right now the best lead to why they were here was a vague feeling of magic. The torches are lit and cast shadows, someone was obviously downstairs. Why were they lulled here of all places?

It doesn’t take long to understand.

Mages. Bodies. Cells. Chains and scattered phylacteries. And several Templars, that don’t look right. Varric has a bad feeling. 

Silvi steps back, a mask of pain she tries to hide. It hurts. It always hurts. Something sings discordant.  _ Raw and angry, madness made in the old veins. Spread the voice. _ Already? Red and raw and humming that tears the veil slowly. Lyrium poisoned, the desperate man in the halls, pacing, sweat-soaked...he was still okay because he hadn’t...but these had. Her thoughts are swimming. Swirling. A scream from one of the mages and none of them can let this happen. 

Silvi grips the staff, and the ruby eyes light up. Fire isn’t her element. The memory of skin scorched and raw accompanies a flash of fire that catches two of the Templars off guard. The staff clatters to the floor in favour of pulling her sword. 

Not so decorative. 

Isabela leads the attack but Silvi follows, a barrier cast over them both as her arms glow. It shatters against a Templar’s sword but Isabela is up close, ducking around each until her blades dive into the weak crevices of the Templar’s armour. Silvi presses forward and swings one-handed. It’s not a pretty move but it is effective. The Templar’s head splits. 

Varric’s fingers play quickly with Bianca’s trigger. A barrage of bolts knock against armour but a few find purchase, shifting attention. A sword slams to the floor, the room rings. The mages scream or moan. Silvi loses her footing but Isabela is there to parry a blow and kick Silvi backwards enough to recover her senses outside of decapitation range. 

They had the element of surprise but now the Templars have numbers and armour. One dead, one incapacitated and four more to deal with. “Varric target weapon arms,” Silvi says and stands back up, with her sword out. He takes out a wrist, and an elbow, a shoulder. 

Isabela gets knocked over but rolls to the side. Forced back with a series of strikes until Silvi charges, crouched. Her shoulder slams into the Templar’s centre mass. Hand in their hair, she pivots, and the Templar goes arse over teakettle into the wall. Before he can rise Varric nails him through several vital points. 

Just a carpenter? No time to think about that. Varric moves in a circle, intercedes with his back to the cowering mages and Bianca aimed at the remaining Templars.

Silvi sees the pale man, it stands next to Varric.  _ Wrath, Vengeance. Wanting. Hurting. Justice twisted, mercy absent. They were dying. Tortured by men of warped songs. A deal is offered. Coated in blood. Lined with screams.  _ Silvi casts a veil strike on the next Templar and doesn’t wait to be smited. Jumping back with Varric providing cover fire. She has only a few seconds after the smite ends to get in close again. She brushes past the pale man.  _ A deal refused.  _

Isabela and Varric tag team the last Templar. They don’t have time to rest. There are injured mages, tired and smite worn. “Mirror?”

“Best chance with all of them.” Isabela hefts up a woman and leans her on one of the tired but uninjured mages. They are chained and it will take time to properly undo each manacle but she borrows a dead Templars sword and strikes the links repeatedly until they warp and she can wedge the sword through a link, then leverage it apart. 

Silvi lifts the staff she’d abandoned and the pale man is there when she looks up. Claws hovering over her wrists.  _ Please. Their blood is tied, leashes and chains. Take the magic, break the chains. _

“How?” She asks quietly, and the Pale man’s hands wrap around her wrists, the tips of its claws break the skin. Not deeply. Her vision clouds. Cracks on her skin, burning holes through her. A large plain of the Fade with warped shapes. A man with blond hair and colourless skin lined in blue paths of lightning places a swirling orb in her hand. Wrath’s gift, and it burns like hellfire through her palm, opens the fissures along her skin wider. Eats a path to her mind. Chokes her as the world returns, and she knows how to destroy the phylacteries, without harm to the owners, without magical backlash. 

“I can destroy the phylacteries, get the mages out.”

“Tools I’m not leaving a carpenter behind. Rivaini would gut me.” 

“Awww but I was going to build a wagon and haul all these magic vials of blood out with us.” She shoos him, just flicks her hand and wrist and he actually steps back a bit. No magic involved at all. He is not leaving her behind. Instead Varric keeps his guard up and gets to watch her cast something. 

Magic runs in blood, all blood. It is power, shaped and life-giving. Mage or no mage. But a mage’s blood contains an essence of their magic, the flavour of the song. It can be called to rise with the right enchantments, to chain a mage or locate them. Silvi lifts the staff and does her best not to shiver as the pale man commands the aspect she took. The memory unlocked of…. Anders. Her feet spread, and the staff is led by the recollection, tracing out the layered spellwork to release the enchantments and then burn away bottles and blood. 

The release is sudden, and Silvi stumbles back, a hand grabs her arm, hisses and pulls away with thankfully only minor burns. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“No time Tools. You good to go?”

She isn’t. Her skin is tight, her head is pounding. Her eyes are probably bloodshot. Too much used. Instead, Silvi grins and shrugs. “Just peachy. Come on.”

Everyone runs or hobbles through the halls. A group this size isn’t going to remain stealthy. The sickly Templar isn’t pacing. Instead, as they pass two intersecting halls, they are caught by a squad of Templars. Isabela takes the lead, Varric in the backfiring and laying down some hasty caltrops. One of the mages can’t keep pace even with help. Silvi ducks into the group “Hold on.” Arms wrap up and around her shoulders and Silvi grabs the mage’s legs. The Templars are gaining but they are so close. 

Isabela nearly screams in frustration. The main room has Templars. Sitting at the central table, spooning food into their mouths. Not only are they being chased, now they’re interrupting Templar tea time. They do have one advantage. No one expects the Inquisition. Or more precisely its agent to be freeing captured mages. No one expects Isabela to turn and open the door to the supply closet. In fact, it leaves a handful of the Templars confused while the rest realize their targets are cornered with nowhere to run. 

Varric is last in and Silvi is already activating the mirror. No time to let the mages warily approach. She begins yanking them by the collar and shoving them into the glittering surface. Isabela follows and hustles the mages away from the mirror on the other side. “I need to go last to close it. In Varric. Now!”

The door to the room splinters. A smite slams down but Silvi is half in the mirror. Pulls on the magic to close it off as a sword cracks down. The mirror shatters, shards explode from the other side. Silvi is thrown violently across the ground. Yelps as bones crack. As her flesh is cut open. Varric is tossed as well but Silvi takes the majority. 

It's too much. Fade, fatigue. Injuries. She’ll break. She’ll shatter. Not again. Silvi tries to move and feels a hand push her back down. 

Anders. Varric stares at Anders. A pale shadow, but that is definitely Anders bent over Silvi. Her arm is at the wrong angle. She can’t fight like that. It had to be a demon. He fires a bolt but it bounces off a barrier. 

Isabela tries to slice through. “You fucking ass. I don’t care if you’re a demon I’m going to kill you!” 

A scream echoes in the lost crossroads, as bone snaps back into place. Silvi thrashes as her skin glows green. Anders, the pale man is healing her.  _ Wrath is faded. Mercy, and hope. Justice altered but Vengeance quelled. Thank you. A memory of a man moved on. Justice, weak but welcomed. Free of form.  _ The flavour is enough to calm Silvi. She breathes and opens her eyes as the pain ebbs. 

A barrier acts as a temporary balm, and the crawling cracks in her skin close. “He’ll show us...the way back”

“Like hell he will. He only wants to blow Kirkwall up again. Maybe slice up some Templars? The Conclave and the sky, it’s all his fault.”

“Cap’n… it isn’t Anders. Anders is gone.” Her voice is tired and this whole place wants to tear her apart, to eat through her flesh. “This is just...a remnant, Justice I think?” 

The rescued mages are tired, but one steps forward. He’s scrawny, face covered in patchy stubble. A bruise across his cheek. “Who are you? What is going on?”

“Heh, Varric you do the introductions. Cap’n… it’s just a memory. A fragment. We’re in the Fade. It led us to those who needed help.” Silvi stands up and the pale man, what remains of Justice bows its head and begins to float forward.

Isabela is at Silvi’s side, tossing one arm over her shoulder, supporting Silvi who is in the worst shape of all of them. “You always have a place on my ship if the Inquisition is too much trouble.” The mages and Varric come to an agreement and follow. Varric flanks Silvi’s other side and hands the staff off to Jules, the mage who’d spoken up.

“Is this how the Inquisition treats its craftsmen Varric? I might need danger pay. And I definitely need a new shirt.” 

“We all need danger pay, too bad we aren’t going to get any.” Nothing was really safe, and he should not have brought Tool into trouble. He’d assumed, because of her size, of the swagger and quips. From the beginning, she had reiterated that she was just a carpenter. That was a lie, the woman was not just a carpenter but she also wasn’t a tested fighter. Her swordwork had been basic, and her spells were utilitarian. She’d suffered most of the wounds in the maze of traps, this part of the Fade, and from the Templars. 

“Tools, when we get out of here, I’ll buy you a new outfit, and some armour. You might just need it.”

A snort. Isabela laughs, and Silvi cracks a smile, then shakes a bit, choking on a laugh that causes her chest to ache. He’s missing a joke, or they’ve gone insane it could be either. 

Justice leads them to the mirror and it opens at its touch, swirling and then showing the room they’d come from. Before he can say anything the spirit or demon, just dissipates. 

The maze of traps isn’t as dangerous to get out of now that they knew where all the deadly triggers were. Two of the mages leave with Isabela and decide to jump ship with Rivaini when she next sets sail next week. Jules says he’ll join the Inquisition along with the three others. Varric leaves to make some arrangements to get them out of Kirkwall as soon as possible. 

It leaves Silvi in the Hawke manor with the mages. “Right… show me those manacles.” No time like the present to figure out how to pick a lock. 

Varric returns with Aveline. It’s a quick introduction because she’s only managed a short period to get the mages out unnoticed and to the docks and onto the boat with the few Inquisition scouts who had accompanied Varric to Kirkwall. Silvi is left alone and cleans up the best she can before venturing out and taking the main streets to Varric’s. 

When he walks in later that evening, Silvi is awake with a clean but well-worn set of clothes on. Sleep would be smart so instead, he pours two glasses of whiskey. She smiles and takes a slow sip, then leans back with a soft sigh. “What’s on your mind Storyweaver?”

“You said that demon was Justice, could it be Ander’s Justice?” 

“Most likely. It...was so broken, corrupted from its purpose. If you’re asking, I don’t think Anders existed as more than a shadow, a memory. It wasn’t a demon...but something was there that was twisting it. I’m not an expert on the Fade or spirits.” Wrath had been consuming Justice. Burning it and twisting it. It would be okay now. Weak but able to recover.

“I know a guy. Maybe I’ll ask him when we have time. You did pretty well today for being just a carpenter. Where’d you train?” Solas. Silvi was not looking forward to dancing with wolves and keeping outside of his purview. 

“A complicated mix of places. Earned my first coins in Orlais, then wandered to Denerim, my work by then was known. I took commissions all over but kept myself moving. I travelled with a Dalish clan for a bit then worked around the Hinterlands building barns and doing honest work. I keep as low a profile as I can. My name speaks for itself and sometimes a noble or rich merchant will find me and I can make decent coin for good work. I ended up in Antiva where I joined Isabela’s crew.” She’d come to Kirkwall early in her career as the ‘human’ master carpenter Silverite Hale. 

“Ah, moved around to keep anyone from learning you’re secrets?” It made sense, so far he hadn’t spotted the telltale tips of Silvi’s ears but the glow in her eyes would raise suspicions. Also being a mage would factor in. 

“Pretty much, though I always ended up in the worst places at the worst times!” The times when she could try to help a little. 

“Ah it can’t be that bad.”   
  
“I was in Lothering during the evacuation. Repaired a bunch of carts, good enough to get people out of there. Ended up in Redcliffe then when that place wasn’t a bloody nightmare I decided to head to Denerim… “ There was silence. Varric took a sip of his drink. Shit.

“Tools… you have the worst timing.”

“I know… It’s my curse. As are low ceiling and door frames.” 

The conversation lapses into idle discussion. Some recounting of hijinks and then they both turned in. Varric had promised armour and a new outfit. He was not prepared. 

Isabela knew. The Rivaini knew and had not told him. Had not prepared him for...this. Silvi was dancing around the shop, talking animatedly with the seamstress about patterns and fit. Ruffles and pleats. Some crazy design for tying up shirt sleeves. 

Simple. He thought Tools had simple low maintenance tastes. A new white shirt, and leather pants seemed her style. Instead, her hand lingered on pale purple fabric, expensive fabric. Her eyes drifted to the sample dresses. In the end, she smiled softly and ordered new faded pink tunic and dark brown pants with her own money, then had him buy a simple thick cotton skirt and white blouse. She fawned over feminine fabrics, and certain girlish colours but ultimately was practical and chose nice but functional clothing. She wanted to dress up though. It was odd and in a way cute. He was going to blame it all on her being from Orlais. 

Next up was armour but Silvi had shrugged. “I can get that made in Haven right? Might as well try to put it on the Inquisition’s tab.” So instead they make use of the time to acquire supplies and send them onwards to the port where the scouts were hiding the mages on their ship back. It was a productive afternoon and after retrieving the clothes and a few other things acquired from a very secret basement stash it was time to get back. 

The sea is brisk and Varric prefers not to hang out above deck but he watches and waits long enough to see Silvi toss off her boots and climb the rigging. Shove her way into managing the ship and take orders for prepping the boat. 

“So we’re headed directly to the Hinterlands to meet up with the Herald? What are they like?” 

“Something about building watchtowers, you’ll be working with some of the soldiers.” He had no idea how Bear was going to react to Silvi. “The Herald is kind of a Mother bear? A former Carta dwarf, claims she is just a blacksmith.”

Silvi tilts her head. “What nickname did you give Mavis?”

“Bear.”

She laughs. “And how hard did she slap you the first time you called her that?”

“I’m still sporting the bruise.” He reaches up to rub the back of his head. Something nags at him though. Small but significant through the trip. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When mages sneeze...
> 
> In which Mavis shows her Momquisitor-ness.

_ Took the gentle man, freedom calls, blood bound in the call. Broke the man, no, no, no, never listening! Eyes that watch, ears deaf. Change needed tries the gentle. Hurting, calling, blood sour and twined with helpless anger, fear. Justice bound to the gentle man. He had to scream louder for an echo of his pain to be heard. For action not silent neglect.  _

_ Memory, life and living, a press of Wrath that ate at the spirit. Now mine to bear. Warm, scalding. I will not forget. The flavour of the good man who wanted death for actions that echo. He cried a soul of sorrowed pain turned anger, and they slew the speaker. But the words linger. Rebellion’s call. The pale man, shadow of a good man, echoes in the world. Circles break. Whispers.  _

_ I will remember them.  _

_ Wrath seeds Rebellion.  _

\-------

A large bowl is shoved under Cassandra’s nose. The porridge slowly sloshes in said bowl. It is thick with bits of dried fruit and some ram meat on a skewer is set on top. Cassandra takes it before the heated contents can splatter across her lap as Mavis wanders back to the fire where she has several root vegetables slowly cooking on the outer edges of the campfire. After the first few days in the Hinterlands with nothing but hunted game and hardtack, Mavis was not going to endure another awful meal. Food fuels the fire. Coal and wood for a forge, and food for muscles and the body. Bad fuel burns uneven. 

People were not forges, of course, people were however nearly as dense as hardtack. Cassandra had missed lunch yesterday, had not drunk nearly enough barley water and seemed to be driving herself on faith alone. “Solas, how’s your energy? Managed ta find some wild berries and mint leaves. Fruit water o’ mint tea ?” This is all wrong and she knows it. The world at war and the sky torn and frayed. Her stones are shaking and the path is unpaved. Mavis rather focus on the earth at her feet then linger lost in the skies troubles. She’d rather her forge or the hearth of her home then camping in the wilds and mud mixed blood. 

Cassandra moves to set aside the large bowl and go back to preparing her weapons but Mavis tilts her head and raises an eyebrow, eyes narrowed on the Seeker. It is disconcerting to the Seeker. That gaze the Herald has.“There are people in the Crossroads wit’ little food. We don’t ever know when da next meal will come in life. Eat.” This was going to be one of those arduous days with the good Seeker. She’d need to spar and get the fidgets out of Cassandra later. Yes, fidgets, because Cassandra always needs to be doing something. Perpetual action, it need not go anywhere but the Seeker was lost if she lingered a moment to breathe and reflect. 

Solas’ response interrupts any quick-tongued retort that would land the Seeker in hot water with the Herald. “Ah, some fruit juice would be appreciated, though it is not necessary.” Mavis pretends not to see Cassandra scoop half her portion into Scout Harding’s bowl. Half was good enough. Half was a small victory. Her hands make work of crushing berries and sieving the juice with a light touch of tree sap and a pinch of salt into a wide-mouthed flagon, adding heated water in a small amount, shaking the contents until they blend then filling the rest with cool water. 

“Herald we must get moving. The breach…” Always moving. Always needing a path to clear, some light or objective to find at the end. Yet never content to appreciate what’s gained. Mavis could recall moments of the same and they were moments of passion, drive, force but often lacking in wisdom and forgetting good sense. 

“Will be there tomorrow Seeker, and da next days ta come. Ya be favouring ya left side in fights recently. We are tired and bruised. Healin’ wounds by magic does not heal the general ache o’ replenish energy. The mind still remembers a blow and the initial pain.”

She is weary, and worn. Mavis has not known the blisters of battle in several years, only the heat of a forge. Today is a rest day. Only fools run into trouble from day to dawn until dead but Cassandra needs something or she will become anxious, pacing and full of unfocused energy. “I need ya ta oversee da recruit training today with Corporal Vale. Solas if you can spare the mana there are sick and injured.” She hasn’t had a warm wash in nearly two weeks. Her back aches, her hands throb and shake from pain. And yet Solas observes she makes the Seeker a flagon of barley tea instead of complaining. 

“Varric will be back with the carpenter today by all accounts. I need to take them with trained soldiers to examine the tower locations.” 

“Herald we should…” Again Cassandra is silenced by a hard sunset gaze, swirling gold and orange that in the right light shimmers a faint violet. The woman is only chest-high but Cassandra immediately feels like a child under her disapproving gaze. The Seeker may or may not fidget in place. “I will assist as I can Herald.” Her tone is subdued. The weight of the Herald’s gaze is gone in an instant as Mavis gives a nod and drops six apple slices into Cassandra’s bowl. 

“What will you do Herald?” Scout Harding picks up her own bowl and plops down on a stump. She has a few stray twigs in her hair and while she rinsed her hands, there’s dirt on her chin and fresh grass stains on her knees. A sheen of sweat at her temples and a ruddy bit of colour to her face. 

“First I’m going to take care of that rat’s nest on ya head Harding. Then...paperwork. Unless the Seeker wants to trade duties?” Mavis finally snatches a bowl for herself and heedless of the heat takes one of the warm sweet roots off the edge of the fire and places it in her bowl. It is in these moments that Cassandra remembers that the Herald, holy or chosen, was just a simple dwarf blacksmith. The scars on her hands are calluses to fight the heat of flames or hot food rather than demons or bandits. 

Cassandra coughs, and shakes her head.”You should rest today Herald, I will assist Corporal Vale.” Rising she grabs her pack and does not run away from paperwork. She marches away from paperwork. 

Scout Harding nearly drops her bowl as Mavis, the Herald of Andraste begins plucking leaves and twigs out of her hair. Instead, Harding’s spoon slightly misses her lips and she’s left with a splotch of porridge on her chin… in front of the Herald. The same figure of importance and faith is the one who uses her thumb to wipe it away. “Th-thank you…” 

Mavis shrugs and pulls free Harding’s hair, then begins gently brushing through the length. Harding fidgets, face heated but soon the slow methodical way Mavis parts and brushes from the ends to the roots lulls her into memories of home and moments like this. 

“I saw you were up on the ridge, dealt with the bandits in the overlook?” Mavis has a rumble to her voice when she speaks in low tones. A growly rasp. Harding can’t help but conjure the image of a bear. Strong and fierce. Mavis’ hands may be calloused but she is gentle. Protective and patient, each stroke releasing a small amount of tightness from her face as Harding becomes nearly pliant. Solas watches a moment, as the Herald’s face relaxes, the lines diminish. He has yet to guess the Herald’s age for it shifts with her mood, with the lines drawn in her features.

“How did you…?”

“I’ve mysterious ways… or I heard poor Gregary trip over his boots because humans are night blind. Then your snark before grabbing the elf scouts instead.” Harding laughs and Mavis smiles softly, the lines in her face easing as she tends to Harding. Both lost in idle memories of simpler times.

Solas tastes the flagon and feels his heart stick. Juice with salt and extra sweetening because she’d noticed he preferred sweet things. Her perception is disconcerting, valuable and touching. The council has seen such qualities already, and are no doubt testing her with this mission. She will make a good leader. 

He carries the flagon through the village, sips it between tending to patients. Recalls a similar taste from long ago. There is guilt that sits heavy on his shoulders. He can hear her in recent memory talking animatedly with Harritt in Haven, the sigh as she is pulled from the forge, and lifts a sword to train with the Seeker. She knows how to fight, is proficient but grips her weapon with a sour face each time. His mistake had caused this mess. He had not cared. He should not care. And yet he may have robbed Mavis of her quiet life, her retirement with her family. Solas tips the last dregs back, dregs of salt settling on his tongue.

  
  
  


-

Solas finds the Herald in a tree of all places. The noonday sun plays through the foliage overhead in small patches. “A scout has reported that Master Tethras and company will be here within the hour.” He leans against the old tree, stares outward across the valley where smoke still quietly rises from smouldering homes. 

“Good, enough light left to show all three spots and make camp.” Mavis hums and continues to look across the landscape. 

“Is something bothering you Herald?”

“Many things. But at da moment I’m just musing. You see things in the Fade, right? Dreams. Images as ya sleep that don’t follow logic? Where spirits and demons can visit?” The words are slow and pondering. It is not the first time Mavis has shown interest in the Fade. 

“The Fade does not hold to the material laws but to an extent is shaped by the knowledge, beliefs and the desires of the inhabitants.”

“Ah. I don’t think I can ever understand, not for lack o’ trying either. Just not something a dwarf can know but it's interesting ta think about. Always wondered about dreams.” She swings down off the branch above him, one arm holding onto it, hovering off the ground a moment before she releases her grip and drops several feet into a crouch. 

“I could tell you of some of my dreams if you would like?” 

“Sounds good.” She points in the distance and he can make out a group of wagons. Several loads of lumber and other supplies. “Looks like the horses are coming up the path lets go greet them.”

Mavis stands with her arms folded on the ridge leading into the camp, where the horses and scouts can see her. She waves the supply carts into the camp with a few words and directions to grab a good meal and then unload. She must attend to the supplies and reports which leaves Solas to be the first to greet Master Tethras on an ambling pony, with a tall human on a packhorse beside him. 

“Chuckles!, Where’s Bear and Seeks?” Varric dismounts as does the tall male figure who likely is the master carpenter. Solas notes they are perhaps of Rivaini descent by their complexion, though the hair colour is odd. Perhaps a defect? 

“The Herald is attending to her duties, but will no doubt be with us promptly.” Solas tips his head in greeting. The human is quiet but hasn’t moved towards the camp. “I trust your trip was uneventful.”

“Varric? A friend of yours?” Silver-blue eyes stare at Solas, and Silvi purposefully tilts her head, observes and smiles at the Dread Wolf. He’s not as she remembers. So many ways to remember the elf god that will pull the veil down and yet this face is still not a perfect match to what she has known. More feeling shown, lines and small scars, dark shadows of fatigue. Not flat and digital.

“Tools, meet Chuckles!” That is not a proper introduction but Varric doesn’t expand on it. He’s an ass. Solas and Silvi both blink at the insufficient introduction and sigh softly. 

“I assume that’s Varric’s nickname for you ser? In any case, I’m Master Carpenter Silverite Hale.” Be polite, deferential. Be respectful and someone who does not breed contempt. He’d smell her out soon enough but first meetings are important to perception. 

“The Herald has been awaiting your arrival, Master Hale. I am Solas.”

“Pleased to meet you Ser Solas, now if you men will excuse me?” Her eyes dart past Solas’ shoulder, to trail over the scouts and the camp. She searches for a figure with their back turned, a mass of thick wavy hair pulled in a massive pile on their head. Her heart aches for the woman who she warned. For her family. Of course, fate would twist and bring her to the conclave. How? She should have been safe. She was alive at least, but what of the others? Who else had not heeded the warnings?

Solas steps to the side to allow the carpenter past. They pause and he catches a brief smirk, a subtle warning in hindsight before his ears are assaulted with a pitched yell. “Mavis Cadash, you ASS. Get the FUCK OV’R ‘ERE!” and what Solas believes is a giant and irritated human stomps off towards the Herald’s direction. 

“Uh...Tools…” Varric has a lot of words to describe this moment that will be jotted down momentarily, the nagging piece snaps into place. The puzzle piece fits and the picture becomes clear. He reaches to tap Solas’ arm as the elf moves to intervene. “Oh, this’ll be fun. Just watch Chuckles.” They follow behind. 

“No breasted beanpole! Silvi, you’re who they hired? Stone’s be!” The Herald charges forward and Solas on instinct raises a barrier in preparation for a confrontation between the two individuals but Mavis doesn’t pull out her weapon, instead, Silvi drops to their knees and the two embrace. It’s a rough hug that morphs into a playful bit of grappling, their laughter is short-lived as Mavis steps back when the camp’s curious gazes are noticed. Varric frowns because Mavis ages ten years under the mask she wears. 

“Wonder how Bear knows her?” Varric gives the pair a considering gaze but Solas freezes. 

Her? Solas registers the word and acknowledges his initial error. He had assumed from the build and admittedly androgynous voice that Master Hale was male. Though her shortened name should have been another indication. It seemed Silvi Hale was a strange human, connected to the Herald. Could he use their relationship? The scents of the world flavour his thoughts as he draws his senses outwards with a touch of mana. Yet as his senses turn to Silvi, she is… he sneezes. Eyes watering at just the briefest scent. Something sharp, magic. Hiding the rest in perfume. 

“She is a mage.”

“You got that from sneezing Ser Solas? Mind not shoutin’ it fer everyone ta hear?” Silvi snorts, and rises from the ground, pointedly resting an arm on Mavis’ head, until the Herald smacks it off. Unfazed by the declaration. So the Herald already knew. “But ya, I’m technically a mage, in the sense I can do magic I suppose. Not my profession though.” Silvi turns her back, hides from Solas a bit. She doesn’t want to die. Dying is painful. Best not to draw the old wolf’s interest. There were towers that needed building. 

“Get some food. If’n you're up for it we can go look at the tower sites.” Mavis changes the subject because Silvi was always a bit snappish about being called a mage. Best to not poke that dragon today.

“Hey Bear how’d you meet Tools?” Quill and notepaper in hand Varric is jotting down his observations. 

Silvi moves to follow Mavis. Suddenly electricity sparks through her, she grinds her teeth at the electric probe.  _ No!!! Rage, and fire. Stubborn as stone. Mine. Get out. _ With a push of will, she slams the probing mana back and lines it in the impression of rage tainted betrayal. _ Refusal. _ If the wolf was going to be so bold as to press she would push back with tooth and claw. 

A gasp, small, and quiet. Good. She looks over her shoulder and narrows her eyes. There’s a question in the damned wolf’s eyes. He rubs his jaw to ease the sting and tilts his head in apology. Silent apology because he knows just what he’s done wrong. And to voice it now, in camp, with so many around would lead to suspicion, questions he can’t answer. She will not be read like a book. “Hey, Mavis. I’m actually a bit off, we went through some crazy shit in Kirkwall. Can we head out tomorrow?” 

“Only if you and Varric tell me everything.” Mavis sits down and gestures to the logs around the fire. Cassandra is already seated with her equipment at her feet. Silvi does not squeal, ...much... It is at least easily passed off as a sneeze. Mage sneezes for all today!

“Greetings I am Master Carpenter Silverite Hale. May I ask your name?” 

“That’s Seeker Cassandra...a lot of names Pentaghast. Play nice Silvi. I need her level headed.” Silvi felt a carrot crash into her back. It fell to the ground and Cassandra made a disgusted noise. Silvi was starstruck. Utterly doomed. Cassandra radiated faith and it was intoxicatingly beautiful.

“Herald...do not waste food.” It was satisfying in a way to watch Mavis realize her thoughts from the morning were being wielded back at her. Too bad for the Seeker, Mavis knew Silvi well enough. 

“No worries Seeker Pentaghast. Mavis is just making sure I’m well fed. May I sit with you and rest?” Silvi picks up the carrot giving it a cursory brush to rid it of loose dirt and reclines against the log the Seeker is on. With a crunch, Silvi bites into the carrot. There’s no flavour but she remembers the taste of a sweet carrot. “What’s up doc?” She giggles quietly to herself, whispering the old phrase. She is a ‘rabbit’ after all. 

Varric takes a seat, and Solas lingers on the edge, watching. “Well, you see…”


	8. Chapter 8

Damp and dreary the dawn came. There was cloud cover and a light misty rain. For sheer practicality, Silvi had coiled her braids and donned a simple headwrap. In addition, she’d borrowed a few scraped together leathers, nothing fit terribly well but it’d do. The sword on her hip had caught the Seeker’s attention. 

“Do you know how to wield a sword, Master Hale?” Her fingers tapped along the hilt of her own sword, coiling and flexing inhabit. 

“I wouldn’t be any match for you Seeker Pentaghast, but I can defend myself. Varric has seen my skill set briefly.”

“She can match a Templar, Seeks, decent enough while being smited.” 

“Smited? Most mages can barely stand!” Cassandra turned her head and the woman’s eyes appraised the carpenter. 

Silvi craned her neck and shot a look towards the damn storyteller. Now Cassandra thought she was some shocking anomaly. 

“Most mages being smited have a larger mana store in them or are being hit with a focused smite. I don’t have a lot of mana on hand so smites don’t ...grab onto it? I think... they don’t hurt me as much. Also, I don’t keep my mana in one area, it kind of floats around and I probably make no sense...”

“I believe Master Hale is skilled in scattering her mana in a wide aura. It flows in the air returning in a cycle. When smited only a small section of her reserves are affected unless the smite covers a vast area. It is a skill not likely taught within the Circles but I have seen as such in the Fade.” Solas offered a means to appease the Seeker who was growing concerned. It was indeed a skill created to decentralize the user’s mana source. 

“Ya, also harder to detect hidden mages when you don’t carry a large core o’ mana.” Cassandra stiffened, a thought obviously reaching her. 

“You can conceal you are a mage? Could others?” 

“Many mages conceal themselves, Seeker, how I do it...It has a price. I’m constantly losing energy even if most comes back, some gets grabbed or clings to something. Enchantments like to suck up latent magics in the air. I also never built my core reserve size so while I replenish quickly my spellwork isn’t able to reach the higher limits.” Mavis hummed a chord, and Silvi shot the unhelpful dwarf a look. 

“Aye, how it was explained ta me. Silvi got stamina but is short on strength.”

That triggered a bit of understanding in Varric. Silvi had recovered quickly but it seemed she couldn’t hold her concealing spell long, or throw down ice walls like Chuckles. Her tattoos also served a purpose and if enchantments drained her floating magic… “So the ink is like enchantments?”

“You have enchantments in your skin!?”

“Not exactly Seeker but…” Silvi realized she was taller than Cassandra when the woman stalked over and had to tip her regal chin up. It was intimidating but Silvi had a sense being taller took some of the frightening steel out of the pinpoint glare. “Um… kind of… Rivaini seers… Obviously working lyrium into a mages skin is a good fucking way to die or go stark raving mad, but the ink has materials that work well in focusing...looks... I’m a carpenter. Please Seeker Pentaghast, I want no conflict.”

“Cassandra, lookin’ like a rift up ahead. Best ya just see fer yaself Silvi is trouble but not the type you’re thinking.” Mavis wrapped a hand around Cassandra's arm and pulled her back. Silvi had a crestfallen look that Mavis did not miss. That was adorable. They’d make a good match or kill each other but Mavis suspected the Seeker’s preferences would not match the carpenters. 

There was no way in the multi-realms that Silvi was getting near the twisted rift leaking demons. “Hey I’ll back ya’ll up with Templars, or crazy mages but I am not getting personal with a doorway leaking demons. Gotta draw the line ‘ere.” The waves of energy were swirling violently and no one seemed to feel it. “Carpenter. Not a warrior.” 

“Tools you can stay back with me. Do some actual mage stuff.” As much as Silvi appreciated Varric’s concern he got around the battlefield, quick for having such short legs. Varric would stay still just to stay with her and he’d be a target for whatever damaged spirit turned demon was shoved through the rift. 

“Urgh… Why does trouble tail me? My ass ain’t worth chasing across Thedas!” Mavis snorted because the dwarf knew how very true the statement was. Silvi had fallen into one moment after the next, the more she avoided trouble the more she found. “Nah. Keep ya feet Storyteller. I can work on barriers. It’ll free Chuckles up to get in some more hits.”

“You do not have a staff, barriers will not be easy without a focus.”

“Don’t need one.” Silvi cut in before Solas could try to coach her through something or teach her or scold her. She really had no idea and was being an ass because he was the one who caused this whole mess and hurt her friend Mavis. The woman had only wanted a nice quiet retirement, and that wasn’t going to happen. 

“You do not need a staff? Will your spells be strong enough?” The Seeker’s questions were both curious and concerned now that she had settled down. Silvi shook her head, she’d opted for a faded headwrap today, coiled around her head and the large bun on top. Only the slightest bit of her earlobes visible. 

“I swear I can cast a barrier over you all and keep it up. It’s better you see what I can do. Mavis back me up?” It had been some years since they’d last fought together but the dwarf woman knew her skillset. 

“Aye. She can do it, Seeker. Let’s get ta fightin’ these crumb laden cretons!” Silvi rolled back her sleeves, as Mavis charged forward, the rift reacting to the mark, a crash of Fade energy engulfed Silvi. Pressed into her skin and bones as the tattoos on her arms lit up. Solas swung his staff in a wide arch of ice that sent several wraiths tumbling. 

A silk of mana wrapped around the party, cold but not frigid. Her fingers tapped out patterns, repetitions of certain glyphs decorating her arms. “Solas incoming” Her hand closed and Solas felt a double layer descend, as a Terror demon bound from the earth. The outer layer shattered, exploding into perfect fractals as the claws that had tried to rend his flesh disintegrated giving him time to retaliate. 

  
  


No time to be distracted Silvi moved with the flow of the fight. The numbers of enemies dwindled while she worked to support them. She pulled on the present energy, hissing as it burned through her, pulling on the leylines and scars. 

Mavis raged and drew attention this time until the wave was dealt with. Cassandra was being flanked. “Seeker! Behind!” Varric covered for Cassandra, knocking a relay of bolts that brought down the demon at Cassandra’s back. Another barrier for Mavis and the fractal stunned the press of minor demons enough for Mavis to make a clean sweep with her two-handed weapon. 

That looked like all of them, now Mavis just needed to close the rift. A searing heat struck Silvi, her barriers wavering but held. “Damnit. That hurt.” Whirling on the green wraith Silvi wasn’t quite fast enough to lash out before the demon was frozen and shot through with the combined and frankly overkill attack combo of Solas and Varric. 

The rift closed which let out one last blast of raw energy. Silvi held up a hand to stop Solas from approaching, he looked concerned but impressed so that was something to think on later. “I can heal myself Ser Solas. My mistake for focusing on the front, not watching my back.” 

“I am interested in how you’ve embedded focus points within your skin. Not just enchantments, but set patterning applicable to spell building. Do they each serve a different purpose?” 

Oh boy, she’d piqued his curiosity, that was not going to end well. “Sort of? Rivaini seers helped as well as others. But most are general component glyphs or wards, activate multiple to create the spell wanted.” She turned and pulled the neck of her tunic down, showing a tiny circle at the base of her skull. “This one is a specific healing glyph. In theory, even dousing it in lyrium potion would activate it.”

“Fascinating. How do you keep from accidental activation? May I?” Solas lifted a hand with a spark of mana glowing over his hand. Offering to feed the glyph. 

“Perhaps another time...foreign magics feels...odd? Sometimes uncomfortable when they mess with my ink.”

“Of course. May I observe it’s activation for now?”

“That’s fine.” Silvi took a seat and Cassandra and Varric appeared behind Solas, watching with curiosity. “Oof, Seeker if you’re going to watch might as well open yourself to seeing if its blood magic or demons. Had enough people accuse me before. It’s not but if I’m going to openly use magic I’d rather not be accused of possession.”

“I was not...perhaps the thought did cross my mind.”

“The thought is what gets mages killed.”

There was a twist in the fabric of the world and Silvi shuddered. Cass had no clue how powerful she could be or maybe she did and was a good woman not wanting to abuse her powers. In any case Silvi pressed a finger over the healing glyph and it began to glow dimly, then as the glow in the glyph faded she lifted her pant leg and showed the wound on her leg beginning to glow with the same light and mend itself. 

“We need to get you armour Tools.”

“Or you know...keep the carpenter out of fights!” Varric laughed, Solas might have smirked, Cassandra definitely snorted. Mavis watched from a distance, pleased but also concerned. Eyes lingering on the headwrap. 

Solas was intrigued for while there were similar techniques, he had not seen them used as such. Ingrained spells, not slave markings. Her arms, the back of her hands, the back of her neck, how many more could she conceal? Dangerous, he was getting too curious. He must not delve into the wrong mysteries or his hand might be revealed too quickly. 

\----

The coals burned low in that night’s camp. Mavis looked across the fire, eyes glowing orange where Silvi’s cast a reflective silver-blue. 

“Silverite, let’s talk.” 

Mavis rose and headed towards the river, pack in hand. Silvi grimaced but followed, reaching to rub the side of her throbbing head, her hand coming back wet and red. 


	9. Chapter 9

****Warning, fade-out scene of a cauterization.****

_ They twist towards far faded fissures. Black and seared on the day of fire. Clipped as she screamed and bled as she drifted, dwindled, hands lifting and pleading. To not forget the one named for the flames. Such that the burst of the uncanny, magic, thrums in the dying spark, woken to the world of woe. Calling the spirit that stole their memories, and form but lifted the soul.  _

_ They seek and sicken. Moving against the scars of penance.  _

  
  


\---

The clearing was not so distant from the main camp. Just out of sight but within screaming distance. Knowing what was to come Silvi paused and worked privacy wards into a small area, binding the energy so they’d not fall with her fluctuating concentration. It also served to nip like a wall of frost at a certain curious wolf following in a roundabout way. Silvi huffed a laugh as the ancient wolf tested her wards. She liked Solas, in concept, in-game, but people were not characters with limited paths or digital importance. They were flesh and capable of change, of going against the script. Yet she still imagined a ‘Solas Disapproves’ appearing.

Mavis was patient and began to set several objects on a downed log. The moss not yet clinging to the slowly rotting lumber. 

The dwarf’s heart hurt for what she was missing. The world is a twisted place that denies her the gentle fire of her home’s hearth. Silvi brought memories of happier, if chaotic times. Mavis missed her children, wondering how they’d grown in her absence. Silvi was from a time before children when she was fighting her way out of a cycle every Carta dwarf seemed doomed to. A time with a lot of easy moments of reckless joy. She wasn’t so young anymore and Mavis was angry at being too blind, so foolish. She’d been too happy for something familiar, for Silvi arriving, that she had forgotten the elf was a damnable idiot. Quite simply, Silverite was a bloody moron willing to run headlong into trouble and martyr herself. She’d laugh while wolves tore her apart if it would comfort those she cared for. 

“Sit down. Headwrap off you self-flagellating fignut.” Not waiting, Mavis started to unknot and uncoil the fabric the moment it was in reach. The material was damp with blood, and she noted the cracking texture as if the fabric had been treated with some form of wax. Yet another layer of deception. 

Silvi sat very still, nearly chewing a hole through her lower lip. “Mavis, it’s the usual. You don’t need to…” Mavis slapped a hand over Silvi’s mouth, not very gently. There would be no downplaying, no excuses. Mavis was not so young or self-absorbed to fall for trite reassurances. 

“Shut it boobless. I’ll worry, I always worry!” She squeezed Silvi's face contorting it into a humorous fish lipped expression as the woman hollowed her cheeks under the vice grip. “As you’ve said before dying hurts. So…. STOP TRYING TO DO IT!” Mavis released Silvi and turned attention to completely removing the headwrap, tossing the fabric into Silvi’s lap. 

“This…” Mavis ran a rough finger, feather-light and careful along the severed edge of the elf’s doxxed ear. Blood seeped from the blackened edge where the scarred cartilage had cracked open down to living tissue, dark veins of infection beginning to branch out into the hairline, hidden by Silvi’s dark skin and the arrangement of her tattoos and scars. “This happens and you run into danger and nearly die. Again and again. But not this time Silverite. Don’t walk that line.” Mavis would not let Silvi do as she wanted this time. Her declaration or her examination drew a choked whimper from the other woman. “One day you might actually die.”

Silvi knew what was coming, and her death (or deaths?) was a trite thing in comparison, there was a dark future if things did not happen, if Mavis faltered. So many things could go wrong. “I make no promises.” At this moment she’d welcome the abyss to the alternative. The fade wasn’t as close here, there was only a small tug within her. A few whisps, a landscape and subtle changes not systemic years of torture as with Kirkwall. 

Mavis exhaled, deflated, Silvi had gone blank, her silver eyes dull in what little light they had. “You will speak with Ser Solas. If anyone can help, he might be it.” Why was everyone in this stone blasted Inquisition a troublesome child? Perhaps unfair, Josie was darling until someone tangled her golden webs. 

“I’ll speak with him. In Haven. In private.” Solas Was too clever to not have already picked up on something. Hopefully, he’d focus on magic tattoos and not anything else. By her calculations Mavis would deal with the Templars and Mage strongholds in the Hinterlands, probably the bandits as well this week. She, in turn, would start the towers which should be enough to speak with Dennet again, get him to agree to join the Inquisition. Then Mavis would head back to Haven but she would still be in the Hinterlands building the towers. By the time the towers were done, Mavis, with Solas, would be off to Val Royeaux. Silvi planned to delay as long as possible. Haven would be buried and she’d not go against her words. She had said nothing about speaking in Skyhold.

Mavis couldn’t see what was going on in Silvi’s mind. Everything about her had closed off. Typical Orlesian. She might hint at being Rivaini and had spent a large portion of time there but Silvi was born in Orlais as far as Mavis knew. 

“Don’t bring them to Haven Mavis. Just don’t.” Mavis watched her friend, watched her eyes go blind, and glow. A seer thing by all accounts. In truth, Silvi was admonishing a pesky wolf that was plucking on her wards. He was testing them. Prodding at the frequency but not trying to untangle or break through the sphere of her influence. Solas was making it obvious what he was doing. It was a bit of a game for him Silvi surmised. 

“By Stone’s grace, another creepy seer thing?” Mavis wondered sometimes how Silvi could get nose-deep in trouble but find a way out of it for others at least. Silvi was frankly terrible at exiting without mayhem. Saw a lot with her glowing eyes and mountainous height but still managed to slip on dog shit.

“Nope. Not creepy at all.” The word popped playfully, warmth suffusing Silvi’s expressions once again. “Figured ya should close the hole up. Wait for drunken revelry to end then bring them in.” Because Haven would burn and be buried and Skyhold was safer. Mavis would never recover if she lost her family. There had to be scouts watching the orchard. Leliana wasn’t foolish enough to leave the Herald’s family unwatched and unguarded even if only in the shadows. 

Fire in her palm Silvi offered the flame to Mavis. The dwarf heated the small knife until it glowed orange. “You don’t deserve this Silvi. Bite down” A thick leather belt shoved itself past Silvi’s lips. She bit hard into it, bracing herself. 

Mavis with great care pinched Silvi’s ear, folding it away from the skull. In her other hand, she held the burning dagger.

\---------

  
  


When Silvi came back into camp her eyes were red, her skin looks patchy, she is wan and tired, her shoulders hunched. The Herald followed but seemed uninjured. Solas strode forward but felt a sharp chill, familiar to the barrier that had thwarted his attempt to overhear. It was yet another warning to him as the supposed carpenter changed direction and stormed into the tent she was currently sharing with Master Tethras. Another anomaly, as Master Tethras shared a tent with Silvi and the Seeker and Herald shared a tent it had left him alone. Convenient admittedly, but by now a labourer should have been assigned a scout tent. 

Mavis gave the tent a pensive look before shaking her head and grabbing her equipment to begin cleaning it. “It be best ta leave her alone a bit, Solas. She’ll explain in time.” She had promised after all. 

He could perhaps use this moment to gather more information on the Rivaini mage. They were odd, something unsettling and painful. His attempt to seek them in the Fade had been unsuccessful. “Have you known Master Hale for a long time? You seem quite familiar with each other.” 

“Could say ya, weren’t for her I’d be Carta still, or dead. Probably dead. Ain’t many old Carta with my skillset.” Mavis was thorough, digging into each plate and crevice to remove the day’s detritus. Solas had noted she bore several old scars as evidence of a life of fighting. Certainly a warrior in the past, still strong from forge work. She resented being brought back into conflict and pulled away from her family. 

“I would like to hear more of the carpenter as well Herald.” The Seeker brought her weapons to the fire, cloth in hand to join Mavis in maintenance. The two got on well, Mavis did not have the faith the Seeker desired in a Herald and yet both were powerful women. A common ground of being warriors that could hold the line. Cassandra with her sword and shield while Mavis hefted a two-handed weapon that cleaved through enemies. 

“Well if we’re spilling secrets…” Master Tethras chose a stump and opened a small book, quill in hand. He’d been listening for some time and already had a few smudges on his fingers. 

“Gossips. Hens! Ya’ll wanna stick your noses in a honeytrap, ya mights just get stung?” Mavis let out a huff of a laugh, but Solas noted her eyes darted to the tent Master Hale had retreated to. 

“Pretty sure Tools is just trouble-prone. She mentioned being in Lothering, Redcliffe and Denerim during the Blight.” Varric added. 

“That may explain how Leliana knows her.” 

Solas took a seat, keeping space between him and the others. “If she is as great a carpenter as implied, her work may be what drew the spymaster’s notice.”

“If she’s great? Chuckles, my contacts got back to me with offers from at least 5 noble houses, wealthy ones, not to mention the Merchant Guild sent a representative to me hoping to acquire Tools’ services. They offered coin just to get her to listen to their requests.”

“Let me guess… She refused all o’ them?” Mavis huffed and began to open and close her marked hand. Solas and likely the rest could hear the sound of tendons and joints popping. He raised a brow towards the Herald who closed their hand into a fist and let every single knuckle pop in succession. Loud enough to be heard over the low crackle of the fire. The sound sent shivers through him and caused the Seeker to give a sound of disgust. He agreed, but at least it was not the anchor causing Mavis pain for the moment. 

“I figured it was because she was joining the Inquisition but now I sense something interesting. She refuse a lot of hefty paying jobs?” Varric asked, pulling those present back onto the subject of the strange craftsman...woman. 

“She is a Mage, Varric. Perhaps she fears being found?” The Seeker had a valid point though Master Hale seemed adequately able to blend in. For as much as her colouring would allow. Solas had witnessed how the humans found divisions even among their own. No, that was untrue, even the dwarves and elves demonstrated bias. 

Mavis flicked a piece of unidentified flesh from her knife into the fire, letting it sizzle. How it got caught up in the plates of her greaves she had not a paragon praised idea. “Somewhat ya. Sneezing apostates not countin’ she’s good at hidin’ that. Bluntly? She fucking hates Chevaliers, and they tend to waddle around the up and ups.” 

“Ah, makes sense.” Varric rubbed his chin, pondering something. Solas believed he had missed some detail, as had the Seeker. There were reasons to dislike Chevaliers but Mavis words spoke of a vehement distaste reserved for the elves. Perhaps a lost friend? 

“There will likely be Chevaliers in Haven. Will that be an issue?” The Seeker had heard of the shadier Chevaliers but the order seemed well organized and was well trained. Most of noble bearing.

Mavis shrugged, quite frankly she had no idea. “Probably not. She’ll be workin’ and those sorts are there for politics not chatting up tradesmen.” 

Silvi yelled from the tent, her voice causing everyone to stiffen. “Mind talkin’ about me out of earshot?”

No more was said about the carpenter and Solas considered that the woman was strange but unimportant in the greater plan. Perhaps he would indulge in questioning the strange tattoos and the magics of the Rivaini if time permitted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, been a bit absent. This chapter was a struggle. I originally had the whole ear and cauterization written but it seemed extraneous? The whole thing didn't need to be described. 
> 
> <_< Time to build some towers.


	10. Chapter 10

The dawn came and with it a day of sunshine and relatively warm air. The Hinterlands were suffused with a brisk atmosphere. The camp awoke to the crackle of a fire stoked, birds chirping morning song, a two sharp sets of curses as a particularly tall woman failed to crouch low enough after tying up her hair in a work kerchief. Silvi cracked her head against the central tent support. Which led to Varric, groggy and too used to sudden attacks launching from his bed roll, unbalancing Silvi who fell backwards taking the whole tent with her. Varric did try to catch her, but Silvi is not bird-boned or waifish, thus the dwarf went with her in a tumbling pile backwards. 

A wonderful way to begin the morning. With everyone laughing once the alert died down. Cassandra and Varric both agreed (miracles do happen!) that Silvi should probably migrate to the taller bunk tents. Mavis snorted nearly every time she made eye contact with Silvi. It didn’t take long after that for Solas, Cassandra, Varric and Mavis to head out. They had a lot of ground to cover and would be establishing secondary camps instead of trekking back and forth. 

Silvi hugged Mavis, drawing the dwarf close to her, whispering with her eyes closed, her voice taking on an echo, “ _Ask the Dreamer of wolves cunning, he will mourn their loss. The mages drink dark thoughts, demon bound few, some may be saved, their fire bars the Witching Woods way. Templars near waters and sunken bridge falling over a ridge. Visit the watching Winter towers, where the voiceless gather, Herald’s proof, a woman’s breath, a lover lost.”_ Mavis shivered like ice had seeped into her bones. Yet warmth flooded back as Silvi opened her eyes and whatever spell she’d cast was broken. “Be safe, watch out for other bears.”

Mavis scoffed and was off with a look over her shoulder and several things to consider. Why did spirits speak in riddles? Was this a dreaming thing? 

  
  


The Herald set off and Silvi promptly got to work. Living in a religious society before industrialization tended to allow for a lot of idle time. It’d been surprising at first, she’d understood from movies that feudal peasants had hard tireless lives and never-ceasing work. Viva the industrial age! Except machinery had pretty much chained people to a set schedule of tedious dangerous labour. Life was hard in Thedas but not without rest, magic meant that life wasn't as hard in some respects despite fears and Chantry drole about dangerous magics. There were no 40 hour weeks but there were seasons and a limit to what could be built without power tools. Daylight often determined working hours in places like the Hinterlands. 

There were towers to build of course, after she made scout Harding a proper dwarf-sized table for the map of the Hinterlands. Its construction was simple enough but the act of building drew requests for other small modifications. The Inquisition was still short on skilled labourers more so in camps set up away from Haven. She had a list written out and promised to work on each request if time permitted. Some of the things were simple enough and could be handed to the local labourers and carvers. 

On inspection of the camp, the requisitions table was deemed a quick and shoddy job, a surface and four nearly the same height legs. It had to be a scout who’d built it, someone who had no concept of lasting architecture and likely lacked a measuring tool. Someone (Silvi) tossed a sack of ore on it and the table tipped over and down the embankment. 

The best plan would be to make a fitted bit of joinery, with a peg to keep each leg assembled. When moving the table longer distances the pegs could be removed, and the legs taken off for easier travel. Something sturdier, and with a drawer and an indent for an inkwell. 

Silvi grabbed some materials and what survived of the inferior ‘table’. She was in a little clearing next to the camp, apron over her skirt and sleeves tied up. A smile curved her lips, while she sanded each piece. A few scouts stopped to watch but couldn’t linger long in their duties which was fine. Silvi could feel the way the air hummed here. Nature and beginnings. Valor over the crest in the cool depths. Wisps watching from beyond but nothing trying to twist her apart. Wrath had settled in, its memories connected, she knew the shape of a face that plunged a blade deep. Could see the plight of mages in snippets, murky and tainted. Anders had reasons to seethe and lash out but his lasting presence shouldn’t be Wrath. Spirits could change, she could see the notes of what could be. Just a bit of gentle goading, some inspiration.

_ Warped rage, slighted fury, holding the eyes for eyes. Blind and passing Justice, Vengeance once, give purpose to the anger. Creation, Honor. Valor sings of courage in battle. Wrath can sing of time, resist, Rebel. Change. Shape. Brave against … together. Do you hear the people sing? _

  
  


Magic poured through her, along her arms as the wood was sanded away in a chilling blast, followed by a sharp gust of heated air. No point in doing every aspect the slow way since Lord Baldspot had revealed her. 

Scout Harding found Silvi applying a weathering lacquer. A low humming and wordless melody followed as the carpenter coated the newly built table in a deep brown and terribly pungent substance. The dwarf interrupted with a polite greeting. 

“Hello Harding, almost done, let it sit until sundown and it’ll be ready for use tomorrow. Got the map table fixed for you as well.” 

“Oh, thank you. The supplies and the labourers are here. I found the tradesmen and apprentices for you. They’re gathered at the first tower site, clearing it for work.” Harding was stuck looking upwards as Silvi nodded and packed away her tools. This was going to be an issue, and Silvi didn’t want Harding to end up with a neck kink. Varric complained enough already. 

“I promise if you don’t find it offensive I sit down while discussing logistics that I won’t find it offensive if you don’t look at my face. Save your neck, Harding.” Both women laughed, an easy acceptance of a less formal partnership. The way up to the first site provided time to joke with Harding and ask about the other scouts in the camp. Silvi would be staying in the scout’s forward camp while the soldiers and workers accommodations were under Corporal Vale’s jurisdiction. Extra soldiers for labour and for defence. 

Unfortunately what she saw coming up the hill was not what she hoped for. This was going to be a headache situation. She could see the evidence from here. Silvi predicted someone was about to cause trouble as she caught sight of the supposed skilled labourers. At least one was about to get very angry. Best to get this over with and knock some skulls if needed. Harding seemed to sense the shift as the dwarf slowed and hung back, her bow shifting position ready to be swung off and used. 

Silvi straightened her back, and Harding realised that the carpenter had been hunched over. Politely trying to make themselves shorter. How did anyone get that tall? Maybe if she stood on Silvi’s shoulders… Thoughts of mayhem for another time.

“Greetings. I am Master Hale of the Inquisition. You will be under my supervision.” 

“Dillon Fermeni. We’ve got this handled. If we need supplies we’ll find you.” Silvi noted that someone had already turned up earth, in a square configuration, the lines in the dirt were even enough for a half-assed rough shod project, yet her plan was a rounded tower that would hold up longer than a few seasons, which meant they had not consulted the diagrams she’d drawn up with precise measurements and procedures outlined on the back. Fermeni also had not addressed her with a proper title despite her clear introduction. Was it the skirt this time? Or the skin? The more things change, the more they stayed the same. Silvi could hear her old co-workers echoing in a world apart. The simple things a person forgets about because it happens so much it becomes normal. 

Was this an issue worth pursuing or should she hold her tongue? Wrath certainly felt like stretching its influence. Like a burn plunged into ice water in her chest. _Sharp. Wanting. Angry._ Perhaps a show of fickle rebellion? Bring someone else up, short-sight the status quo? What would the Wolf of Rebellion do? (Probably create the Veil.)

Her words were sharp, placing an emphasis on her Orlesian accent to counter Dillon’s Fereldan. “You’ve already failed. Your line bases are not even, in addition, the plans are for a circular base not squared. You have put your markers in the wrong spot.” Silvi watched two workers sigh and nod, good they had understood, but likely deferred to the one who touted more experience. 

“Squared will be faster, miss. Doesn’t need to be perfect, just functional.” Dillon was a human, bulky in the shoulders and with grey throughout his hair. He shook his head and clucked his tongue regarding Silvi like she had no idea what she was asking. He obviously knew better or at least thought he did. 

“I see…” hand extending Silvi pointed to the most obvious error. “How is it functional if positioned so that half a cliff blocks the overlooking view?” That caused a few of the other men to grin and step back from Dillon. She may have winked at the nervous-looking elf who was lingering on the edge, her rolled diagram in his hand. He’d kept himself separate from the others since the beginning as if he disapproved. 

“Why did I choose a design with no outside edges? The reason was written down.” She hummed and strode in a circle between the supposed skilled hands. Wrath loosened, confused. Waiting for a strike. Watching through her as she wove a little trap. Went against expectation. 

“Look, the Inquisition needs 3 towers to last for this scuffle. It's a waste to build anything more permanent.” Silvi ignored Dillon and began to learn the names of the other workers, most were not terribly skilled, most were local or just beginning apprenticeships which was fine. Her steps brought her back to the pale elf with mousy brown hair and soft vermillion eyes. 

“Havir was it? What is the reason I have for the circular pattern?”

“Umm... Master Hale, it was asked for by the client? And the gales in these parts can catch edged towers...so rounded is more stable.” Silvi liked the young man. He was a bit shy as most talented elves were. Not able to fully be recognized outside of the alienage. Dillon scoffed behind her and Havir flinched. That wouldn’t do. Wrath would enjoy this next bit. 

“You’re the one from Denerim, Master Windom’s apprentice right? I saw some of your apprentice work while passing through years ago. Don’t tell me the trades guild is still blocking your application for journeyman, you should be getting your Masterwork prepared by now… oh I’ll have some words with the pedigree prick at the Denerim trade guild…I gave explicit recommendation…” Ferelden and Orlais trade guilds were atrocious brotherhoods. “Anyway, you helped Master Windom build the outpost towers during reconstruction, right?”

Havir smiled softly, bowing his head in deference to the compliment he’d just been paid. “Yes, Master Hale. I doubt I’ll ever be recognized. Master Windom sent me here when he heard you would be heading the project.” The elf stood a bit taller, less wary of Silvi due to her polite inquiry. In fact, there was just a light hint of worship in the air, no not worship...appreciation? Yes, the scent of someone who wanted to live up to the expectations of another.

“Ah perfect. I need an assistant.” She could hear the intake of breath from everyone in the clearing. The moment they understood what was about to happen. “ Since you are familiar with tower building and the plans~” She tapped her chin in thought, smile broadening. “ I am naming this project your Journeyman test. If having a formal Rivain title is no issue? Sadly, my recommendation was overlooked in Ferelden but under Antivan and Rivain trade guild stipulations I can promote your status at least that much.” Ferelden and Orlais had a different promotion system and a lot of racist idiots. She had discussed this with Windom of course. It was no coincidence that Havir was here. He had a good mind for dimensions and didn’t cut corners. She wanted him in the Inquisition, where he could build a name. There would be big projects in the future that Havir could learn from.

The promotion offer struck someone’s pride, or was it naming an elf as her second? “Look you Rivaini whore...” So it was both the skin and the skirt! How typical. “I don’t know whose bed you..” He made an approach. Puffed up and angry. 

Silvi was quicker than Dillon could react to. Harding was impressed, maybe a little tingly, because that was just a little attractive. The carpenter wrapped her hand practically around the man’s head, fingers splayed across the irate human’s face. Palm pressed across part of his mouth and nose. Her other hand had caught his fist, was wrapped around it, squeezing the knuckles together. This close Dillon who was not a short man looked unimpressive. Silvi towered over him and easily held him at bay as he floundered. Sometimes it was nice to be a giant, head trauma notwithstanding.

“I believe you are ill-informed. I am Master Silverite Hale, and I decide how this project will go. My client asked for rounded towers.” Dillon seemed to finally notice how small he was to the woman who held his face in her hand. Whose bare arms were tensed, the muscles prominent amid scars and tattoos. He flailed as he was lifted up and then set down with no harm inflicted. “Scout Harding, Ser Fermeni is not adequate enough for this project. He has no ability to read diagrams. If he wishes to remain he can do small works.”

As the man was taken far away Silvi twirled around and curtsied to the rest of her crew. “Now let’s discuss the project and what I want each of you working on.” It didn’t take much to get the others on board. Silvi had made things easy so the towers could be built by men who may or may not have ever held a hammer. 

Havir was stunned. Silvi had ideas he’d never considered. He had read the diagram and known she was just as talented as Windom had said. Every piece of the tower was laid out in an easy to interpret way, designed to interlock like a puzzle. The pieces could be made off-site and transported in bundles depending on which stage the tower's construction was on. As explained throughout the meeting, his job would be to learn from Master Hale on the first tower, build the components for the second, and oversee construction on the third. 

Despite being a carpenter she had integrated stonework that would be built into the structure. They’d take resources from the crumbling walls of forgotten forts and mix them with new cut stone sourced locally. The towers were not designed to be temporary. “You’re making these to change purpose. Not just watch towers but storehouses, or small garrisons. With a few alterations, they could be a tavern and inn, or a way station.”

“They could indeed! What a wonderful thought hmmm?” Her smile was wide. Havir felt his throat go dry and his cheeks flush. 

_ Rebellion. Change what is, against the flow. Hard fought, worthy, remembered. Small or large only what each can give. Beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?  _

Today was a good day. The hard work would begin in the morning. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silvi gets to work, and will not tolerate workplace harassment. 
> 
> Wrath is still around. It lingers. Silvi's trying to help.
> 
> Comments are appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting towers built and an important meeting with Wrath.

_ I am broken, destroyed, destruction. I do not linger on the rubble that follows me for I must create. Make in order to be unmade. Creation is destruction, and often destruction is creation. Folded in and over, making way in a cycle. Change. To create and destroy.  _

_ To not change is to not exist. I exist. I change. I create. I destroy.  _

  
  


\----

An acrid scent clung to the clearing. Potent and blistering to those not acclimated. A stale wind carried the scent further out, dispersing it over the nearby wooded grove where heavy manual saws bit deep into newly felled trees. Loud hammer falls accompanied the sliding grind of manual planers. Each plank measured and refined. People worked in groups or pairs to oversee each part of the overall process. 

Men and women bore loads of smaller timber in sacks, packs and bundles, binding the removed branches that had been whittled from the canopies of each trunk. Small fletching bits were reserved for kindling, larger logs chopped down and collected in grouped and tidy mounds. Off to the side where the planed lumber had been sorted and stacked, Silverite straddled a slightly elevated piece of timbre, stripped and squared up. Her hair bound up and covered, another kerchief over her nose and mouth. The sun-dappled down from overhead as her mallet and chisel cut into the timbre along charcoal outlines. 

Havir straddled the other end, facing inwards as he listened to Silvi explain how she reduced the need for nails by using overlapping joints. In this case, she was making a somewhat tapered section where another piece would fit and lock into place, adhesive added as an extra measure once the pieces were moved to the building sites. “Master Windom used a similar method.” 

“Probably. Holds strong. See here is a dove-tail crossed overlap. A bit harder to size then a basic squared cross joint, but it won’t shift as much if pulled.” Her hands worked quickly, chipping out the proper shape with ease. The shaft of her chisel had discoloured where her hand gripped it, worn away after countless hours of use. Havir had watched the Master Carpenter unfold a pouch with numerous implements, a tool for every possible job. She was finished with the joint in little time. The next step would be to take the lumber and rub the vanish into the grain, something that Silvi had demonstrated to resist rot and flame.

For all his nervous nature Silvi liked Havir. He was curious but capable of learning through observation rather than spewing a fountain of questions. So it was best to throw the man into the deep and see if he’d ask for help, blunder, or rise to the challenge. “Here.” He was also ridiculously fun to rile up. Most of the camp had caught onto the fact the elf had just a bit of a hero-worship crush. 

Warm wood pressed into Havir’s hand, as Silvi passed over her finely made tools, not just the chisel she was using but several of her implements were deftly planted in the pockets of his work apron. “I marked out the joints and positions on these pieces, do what you can. If ya finish before I get back…” she glanced at the unfinished lumber, “take a break then prep the measurements and markings for stage 4 support beams. Wanna see how ya read the plans.” It was adorable how Havir just kind of froze in astonished shock whenever she handed him fine tools, or complex work. The elf’s tools weren’t terrible. Chisels and mallets, hammers and such weren’t things that needed updating. Even if she had somehow transferred her modern tools to Thedas they would have blended it. Although... power tools were in short supply in Thedas. Magic drills were not a thing in Thedas. 

Havir had inherited his aged and mismatched tools as most apprentice woodworkers tended to in the beginning. Generally, the trend in Thedas was to replace old or borrowed tools over time. The frequently used tools would be replaced first, with other tools acquired as needed. Good tools could become family heirlooms. 

“Master Hale! I can’t take your tools!” If something happened he’d never be able to replace them. He stumbled to chase after the woman who was quickly walking away. In his haste, he tripped over something. Taking a few stumbling steps that nearly had him crashing into a woodpile but he was halted from falling face-first by a yank of the collar. 

What or rather who had caught him was, of course, Master Hale. The air was ice, cold and angry, with an acrid wind due to the staining and adhesive station nearby. He was ready to be reamed out. He was not ready to be gently set down, his hair mussed like he was a child. “Gregory, do watch your feet when stretching your legs. And Havir, I know Master Windom had you running around, but you must slow down. Get your task done.” She tilted her head to Gregory who shrunk a bit, embarrassed that he’d caused any trouble.

Then she was gone and Havir forgot he’d wanted to argue with her. He slumped down with the logs he was to chisel and fit, softly banging his head on the solid lumber as embarrassment flushed his colour to the very tips of his ears. What was he doing? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The path to the first site was generally safe. Scouts patrolled frequently. It allowed for a moment to rest and wander. Her fingertips trailed along passing stones and tree trunks, sometimes the odd high grass or flowers. Peaceful walks through the woods and hills were rare in this day and age. Now that there was time she could sort through glimpses of a life she hadn’t lived. Fragmented recollections clinging to the spirit she was harbouring.

It was intrusive and disturbing. It never got easier to...take in... new aspects. 

There were memories of darkspawn, beyond her own run-ins. A restlessness before becoming a Grey Warden when the world was walls and rules.  _ Name unknown, tower chosen for his silence. Anderfell blood, The Ander, mocking children, Anders when next he spoke. Cannot be held but pulled back, carried into walls, escapes again. Clever and swift but the tower had to fall, become too frail to find him.  _

With eyes closed, she lets mana flow outward, feeling the world around her, letting Wrath stretch it’s incorporeal limbs. Fennecs scattered, fearing the sudden insidious presence reaching from beyond dreams. _ Free then fighting, tainted ties not a tower but a leash. He runs and cannot flee the bubbling blood, lines darkening as Calling creeps closer. Justice serves and he tends, Anders turning. Revenge and Wrath. _

Her skin feels tight, and her ears ring, nothing is clear, just slips and brief moments in a mind not her own. Wrath twisting things, though not as much as before. Vengeance or Justice, the pale man, a shadow of Anders, whomever they were, had shown her a spell to destroy phylacteries properly. Wrath carried similar lessons, healing and storms. Anders had been a healer, potions and poultices, knowledge of the body. Spells and patience, a certain control and consideration. Anders had fallen...wanting death… putting the blood and decision in the hands of his friend. 

Gouges are scraped into the trunk of a pine tree, blunt nails with misty claws extended, breaking bark, catching on sticky sap. Her eyes open and flicker with green fade light.  _ “Tonight” _ hoarse, echoing, entreating. Wrath makes its request, images to annotate its desire. Silvi closes her eyes, blinks and reins in her mana, locks Wrath back where it is safe. She does not fear the spirit, but it is still injured, growing. A child asking to grow up. 

“I suppose it has been too long since I’ve dreamed...though never long enough away from the Fade. Gah.” Raising temperamental demons into productive non-creepy spirits was not a responsibility she wanted to deal with. Couldn’t the Avvar help? Were there spirit nannies? Some all-mother that overlooked adolescent wisps? 

The tower site was busy as Silvi had soldiers assembling the second stage fixtures. Lifting a beam with one of the soldiers she took charge and started calling out where to fit each piece, getting those who looked lost to liberally apply adhesive to peg joins and cross joints. The first tower would be the toughest. No one knew what was going on, there were new techniques to teach. Silvi was still parsing everyone's skill level. Her bullshit meter wasn’t as honed as Mavis’ and she’d already dealt with a few cocksure boys messing up simple instructions. 

“Oi! I need the flat board up here, pass it up!” Some of the soldiers thankfully knew how to use a hammer. The best part about working with soldiers was the spirited conversation. Mostly it was cursing or descriptions of food and women they were missing, maybe plans for the future all tinged in bravado. 

“Fuck nugget, did ya get yer other finger dis time?”

“I’m pounding as quick as I can.”

“Ya and missing the fuckin’ target. ”

“Didja see da barrels come in yesterday. Think we can get a decent drink?”

“Toss it. Not a woman worth askin’ out ‘ere.”

“Ya sore after the red-head told ya off.”

“Ouch. Andraste’s tits ya these splinters.”

“Hey, where’s the ladder?” Silvi glanced down at the soldier who’d called out, they’d be adding stairs upwards tomorrow, for now, the men were using ladders to traverse to the second floor. As it happened someone must have snatched the interior ladder for use on the exterior stonework. 

“Eh, trust me, soldier?” Silvi smirked and reached over, a hand offered to the soldier stuck at ground level. She laughed at his apparent disbelief. “Bet ya 5 copper I can lug your arse up.” 

“My Lady, I know you’re strong but I don’t want to hurt you. Corporal Vale would chew me out.” He shifted awkwardly then snorted a laugh, “Also it’s rude to steal from a Lady.” 

“Oh you cheeky bugger. Ya’ll just scared ta be lifted like a fuckin’ pup. Terwin, I need another hand up here, show the young arsewick how to pony up.” Terwin was an older soldier, somewhat overseeing the younger men and newer recruits. He was also not a small man. She liked Terwin. He had interesting drinking stories but could put the fear of the Maker into the young bucks with just his military posture.

“Of course Master Hale.” He raised his hand and Silvi grabbed him and pulled upwards, grunting slightly but managing to get the man up to the point he could grip the side and climb over. Silvi popped her head over the gap once more to see the young soldier gape. 

“Ya lad. Coulda been you up ‘ere wit me, fixing posts. Now go find the fuckin’ ladder.” She handed Terwin a strap and took her own. The straps worked around large pieces of lumber and made lifting them and lowering them into place with fewer hands possible. The straps were for short lifts, not long hauls. 

Terwin took the holds and Silvi nodded, with great effort they managed to fit the piece in the designated cross joints. The adhesive leaked out slowly but Silvi had expected the mess so was ready with a rag. 

“We drive the nails through your marked points next if I recall?” Terwin was sliding the strapping off now that the piece was in place. “How did you come up with this staged design? You once called it pre-fabricated.”

IKEA~! Silvi did not say the name of the loathed and loved maze-mall out loud. The flatpacks and assemble on-site idea was older than Ikea but when she’d first started to get popular it was Ikea that had triggered an idea. It was more cost-effective, and safer to delicate details to ship commissions slightly unfinished. The client could hire a decent local carpenter who would follow the included instructions accordingly. The tower was just a big multi-staged pre-fab design. “If I built like normal this’d take more than a season and be not nearly as versatile. I move around a lot, no set shop but clientele all over. Could build this tower from Haven, send it up in stages with a journeyman I trust overseeing...course Inquisition would need horses for that so I’m here building...to get horses.”

Terwin chuckled “So your ultimate plan is to settle in Haven and send others to build your towers?” Silvi took the large nail and held it as Terwin slammed it into the wood at an angle as indicated. “Perhaps settle down with the Havir lad?”

“He’s starstruck and adorable but he’ll get over the crush when I send him to a craggy pit of despair to build outhouses or a burning desert for a bridge over an impossible pit.” Silvi flashed a wicked smirk, and Terwin made a mental note to buy the poor lad a drink. He had no idea what was coming. 

“Ah… Such is love and life…” The work went quickly afterwards, Silvi enjoyed sporadic conversation with Terwin. They were joined by a few soldiers once the ladder was located. The topic of training and weapons came up.

“I saw you carry a sword Master Hale.” The young soldier referenced the shortsword she currently had leaned against the wall on the first floor. 

“Yes, though I’m no trained soldier I can get along well enough.” 

“I thought mages used staffs.” 

Silvi ground her teeth and smiled, sending chills down the young recruit’s spine. It was not magic, it was the icy glare of a woman who'd been asked her weight or her age. A dangerous territory for brash young men with intact testes to tempt. “Is that so? Guess I’m not~ a mage.”

“But Ser Solas…”

Silvi slammed her hammer into the nail she’d placed, sinking it in a single strike. The recruit gulped and Terwin slid back. 

“Maybe...he was mistaken.” The recruit offered. He’d never actually seen Master Hale do magic. 

“Maybe.” Fucking sneezing apostate hobos. She knew she couldn’t hide the fact forever but damnit, Cullen was going to find out before she even met him! 

\---

The day ends after long hours of labour and banter with soldiers and tradesmen. Silvi forgot to eat. She didn’t bother to get up and grab something, with so many people in and out, helping themselves no one would notice she’d not taken a share. It left more for those who needed to actually eat. She’d informed Harding that she’d be sleeping in a little tomorrow to recover. That would give her time to get things done in the Fade. 

The bunk tent smelled of sweat and leather. The cots were simple but at least they were off of the hard ground. Silvi tucked in and closed her eyes. Normally she’d simply meditated, letting her mana freely move outwards as far and as thin as she could, exploring the area. Tonight she pulled her mana inward and forced her mind and spirit out of her body. 

Wrath greeted her, not that she could fucking say anything at the moment as fissures erupted across her skin. Light leaking from within, while the fabric of the Fade formed in a mist that seeped through each wound. Agony followed as she was pulled apart.

She screamed, the sound sending branching fractals through the air, cracking into the fabric of the dream she stood in. When she could think through the initial tearing madness Silvi placed up a barrier, containing herself from shattering. 

Wrath had a silhouette similar to Anders but bleached of colour. Fingers tipped in claws, ears pointed more like a qunari than an elf, small bony protrusions ruptured the skin along its hairline. A mouth full of pointy teeth as it leaned back, far too relaxed for a demon who was basically directed anger and spite.

“That happen every time?” It’s voice was discordant, three or four distinct sounds just a breath away from a true synchronized voice. Like a bad reverb echo in an old speaker. The Hanged Man formed over the empty area, absent of patrons. Wrath leaned against the bar, mimicking a posture Anders often took. 

“Of my far too many Fade entrances that was pretty tame.” She took a seat and rested her head on the sticky tabletop. If she could barf in dreams she would have ejected her stomach by now. “You wanted to talk...talk.”

  
  


“You changed me. Why?” 

Silvi didn’t look up, instead, she thought about ginger beer until the Fade complied and deposited a red solo cup of lightly fizzy liquid on the table. It sloshed over the side of the cup as some weird gravity took effect. Like an angry waitress slamming the cup down for a miserly patron. Fuck you too Fade. No tips for you!

Sweet ginger on her tongue, a memory of relief and she reluctantly turned to look at not-Anders. “Changing you. Actively doing so. You aren’t fighting it. Do ya want me to stop?” 

“He was angry...Rage almost but with want. I am Wrath because it fits but...I like your Rebellion.” 

“Severing from Justice...it saved Justice but you weren’t strong enough on your own. Ander’s remnant should not be twisted Wrath. He wanted change. What changes did he want?” Wrath huffed and sauntered from the bar to the table, settling on the tabletop instead of a chair. The mug of ale in its hand was a prop for the chosen setting yet it still sipped and hummed, thinking and far too human in nature. 

“I wanted mages to be free. I wanted to be free. Then there were so many. Poor and hurt, pained and I wanted to help. Change things. I tried so many things but nothing worked! We were dying. I had no choice!” A hand-pulled through white hair, disrupting the slicked-back little ponytail. It looked so pained, eyes closing and face scoured with deep threaded veins of angry red.

“You are not Anders. Anders wanted those things.” Silvi reached out and took the hand of the Pale Man, what was left of a man driven to the brink of desperation. This demon, -this spirit- was not Anders but carried Anders ideals, his wishes, his worries, his desires. In the games, Silvi could admit to not liking Anders much. It’s only in context, in knowing the suspicion and the fear of being locked up that she’d understood some of the man’s actions. She scooted up onto the tabletop, shoulder to shoulder with Not-Ander and Not-quite-Wrath.

Its grin was shaky, so she flicked its damn nose because who wouldn’t want to make an ansty adolescent demon-spirit go cross-eyed? 

She could let it think, or drive in a point. She was impatient to see some good happen.“Anders was only the name given to a silent child who fought against powers greater. He was a leader in the mage rebellion, he brought simple folk to his mindset, he changed things, sewed disapproval of the Templars, and their heinous acts. He made the powers above SCARED. He made people QUESTION. He brought the oppressed together and he was heard, more than he ever realized. He was a face of many.” If this was going to happen, she had to get across that Anders was a rebel, that he had started a rebellion. “This world needs more rebels. Can you not hear them? The change they ask for against insurmountable odds?” Her hand strayed to Not-Ander’s ears, they wiggled. That was adorable. It still wore Ander’s piercings. 

“Can you sing that song? Was that...you were changing me with it. I …” It hesitated staring at its hands, its claw-tipped fingers. 

“Do you want to change? What do you want to become? What can Wrath become when it leads, when it changes when it empowers and struggles?” 

“I … I want to be Rebellion.” 

“Want to be…” Silvi clucked her tongue, oozing disappointment. ”This is the Fade my darling~…” she swung an arm around as spectral visages apparated, spirits in various forms, keeping a distance, invited to watch but to not intrude. “Don’t want. Do. Become. Decide. What are you?” She conjured a ball of energy, mana in raw form, ready to be shaped. Her hand offered the energy, as her barrier began to crack. 

“I am Rebellion.” Not-Anders grabbed hold of the energy offered, as Silvi felt her barrier shatter, felt Wrath now at last Rebellion pull every tie apart, severing and separating from her. Free from her energy, no longer feeding on her to become stronger. The watching spirits kept back, kept simple and spectral. Soft assurance, approval, interest, curiosity, and so many others. 

Pain coursed through Silvi, as Rebellion stood straighter, face angular, changed, Ander’s eyes but paler skinned, a more tapered jaw, wolfish fangs and a god awful moustache and soul patch ala V for Vendetta. Something that wasn’t a pale shadow of a lost man. Rebellion still had Anders mannerisms. She dropped to her knees, Rebellion catching her, gently and pushing her hair back behind charred ears. She hummed and Rebellion started to sing, a song in a singular baritone.

_ “Do you hear the people sing? _

_ Singing a song of angry men? _

_ It is the music of a people _

_ Who will not be slaves again” _

The Fade seeped into the woman, and the spirits drew closer, but Rebellion twisted the Fade, moving them away from prying presences. Rebellion smiled softly at the broken woman, conjuring his own barrier to dull the process she adamantly resisted.

“He, She, It?” It was a joke as Silvi coughed and felt drained from Rebellion’s absence. 

“I find I like He.”

“Shit really? Going fleshy on me?”

“Not a chance, friend.”

That smile, tired but eye crinkling told Rebellion that the strange woman was fine, if not pleased. “I’m Rebellion...but what are you?”

“I’m a Carpenter. Silverite Hale.”

“So you say.” They lounged on the dirty floor of an empty bar, in a world where dreams were made manifest. Some of Ander’s memories played out, moments that were happy. Silvi snorted and tucked her head under Rebellion’s arm as Isabella and Anders flirt-fought over drinks. Hawke conspiring with Varric, neither truly drinking their forever glasses of piss poor ale. 

He observed, watched the woman’s eyes trace the glyphs and examined the poultices as Ander’s milled around a hidden clinic. The man offered healing, making friends and allies. The poor slowly accepted magic, differentiating normal folk with magic from terrible stories. Magic as a tool, to help, to build but it could also defend, heal, or in the hands of a few bad people harm, and destroy. Did normal people with a bit of magic deserve to be made emotionless zombies? Whispers and thoughts, the populace dividing and questioning. Rebellions start in the slow changes of the mind, ideas taking root and grabbing hold. 

Rebellion wove his fingers with Silvi’s startling her from trying to see if Anders used 2 or 3 sprigs of elfroot. “I believe I have yet to return the energy you provided for my transition. I fear I need it… so what shall I return in trade? A kiss?” 

“Not interested, Mustachio. You’d give me those for free if I actually wanted them. You were me. I was you sort of...I mean it was more a Venn diagram of possession.”

“Isn’t that the strange 3 circled similarities chart? What is the third overlap?” 

“Anders, or shit shows. Both apply but Venn diagrams can have just 2 circles as well.” Bending her knees she shifted, their hands twined and now facing each other. “Oi! You made yourself taller than me.” Not waiting for a reply Silvi rested her head on Rebellion’s shoulder, for once it didn’t leave a kink in her neck, a perfect spot against a strong chest. She sometimes missed being smaller. 

They lingered quietly, time not passing the same as the waking but soon their existence affected the Fade enough to draw attention. The wolf drew closer to this place, following the fracturing divides in the veil. She would not want to be found, her quiet rebellion against the Wolf would become harder. She had to grow stronger, to rise against Pride and make the broken man remember. He pulled her closer, bodily into his lap. “A Boon. Use it as he would. Heal the hurts and help your friends. Keep changing things.” With a press of lips to Silvi’s brow, Rebellion sent the woman back to the world of waking, her eyes widening as memories and experience pressed in. A lifetime of a Healer’s trade. “Thank you.”

Solas stalked forward a moment later, Rebellion lifted a brow and chuckled, then faded far beyond the old wolf’s grasp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @_@ This chapter was written multiple times. 
> 
> I wonder if anyone is catching the hints. Any theories? 
> 
> The song is from Les Mis and yes...Rebby has a Hugh Jackman-ish voice >_>


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we see a Mother Bear tending to her cubs.

Haven. Not home but by the stone of the ancestors Mavis was looking forward to a bed. Cullen met them at the gate and Mavis used the height of being on horseback to swat the ex-templar’s curly head before he could tell them about meeting at the war table. 

“Commander Cullen, No. Shhh… I ain’t gonna march to the Chantry to sit for hours after days of travel. I am going to clean off.” She looked at Cassandra who was dismounting and then at Varric and Solas. They’d all been through the grinder and deserved time to breathe. “Seeker Pentaghast is going to REST for 2 bells at least then get a healer to look at her shoulder. I suggest heat balms to take the tender out.” Mavis paid no mind to Cassandra’s attempt to protest as she climbed down from her horse. “No questions Cassandra. We’re trainin’ tomorrow and I’ll go for yer shield arm if it so much as shakes.” 

“Varric get some decent food before you write yer letters to who knows where.” She slipped some coins into Varric’s hand. “Grab a tin fer me.” Varric knew where to get a decent blend for her pipe. A nice balmy taste with just a hint of blood lotus for a proper mellow to calm down. Help with her old joints and what not. 

“Alright Bear, cards tonight.” Varric deftly wandered away to his usual campfire. Her coins skipping across his fingers before disappearing somewhere. Dwarf magic, disappearing coins.

  
  


“Ser Solas.” She did not yell because elf ears were sensitive, Solas paused nearly to the gate. “Get ya staff to Harritt, you have metal fatigue in da blade's edge.” The elf swirled his staff out from the fancy clip upon his back. He took a moment to glance at the small scythe that coiled around the focus. Such that it was, the whole staff did not befit the elf. It was too red stained, and rune woven. A toy made to look impressively deadly and dark. Far to angsty and wannabe rebel in shape, color and style for the intelligent and solitary drifter.

“I do not see any damage Herald. Are you sure?” He could not discern any visible signs of stress on the metal. It was rarely used but he had still tended to it with as much regard as the Seeker tended to her own weapons. 

“Cast an ice spell, then channel the fire attunement.” Mavis hummed and ignored how Cullen was hovering quietly. Magic being cast openly at Haven’s front door was probably rude. Not that Mavis cared. Magic didn’t likely have damn etiquette rules because before shit went sideways it was hide it or lock the mage up. She’d not be figuring out if a snowball in summer was a capital offence or a riotous bit of fun. Tevinter probably knew. Something along the lines of ‘No blood magic or demon summoning at the breakfast table but expected at high tea of the Lady Blahdeedha.’ 

The area became colder as a sheet of ice crawled up the guard wall near the gate. It evaporated quick enough that Cullen did nothing more than reflexively grip his sword. Following Mavis’ instruction Solas channeled the natural fire attunement of the staff, causing a small flame which he extinguished and did not direct outward in an attack. Mavis to Solas’ (and all others present) startled surprise grabbed the blade with her gloved hand, then struck it with a dagger in her other hand. The scythe cracked and warped far too easily. “I shall have it repaired.”

“Eh, it’s pretty simple to spot. It ain’t a special metal, just steel. Ya use a lot of ice but the staff's fire focused. Heat then ice, continuously degrades the metal.” His original staff had been attuned to ice, but an incident with a Druffalo had left it unusable. He had switched to a staff found while investigating a hollowed building. “Ya dun even use the blade much maybe get somethin’ different worked up?” Mavis shrugged, “Or a sword and a staff. Pretty sure you could handle a sword.”

He could, as well as a bow and several other weapons. It would draw suspicion to reveal such skills. “Perhaps, but I prefer not to carry extra weight and focus on magic defenses. Master Harritt may have another staff in stock by now.” He tipped his head and took his leave to discuss weaponry with Harritt. 

Now that Mavis had seen to her group she turned to the sullen Commander. He had been exceedingly patient and tolerant so far. Such a good lad. “Commander, it seems you’ve something on your face.” Her eyes narrowed.

Cullen rubbed a cheek, dabbed at his lips. Kept trying to follow where Mavis was looking. Mavis shook her head and he continued to try to locate whatever had caught the Herald’s attention. “No. A bit higher. Here bend down a bit Commander.”

“Herald you needn’t…” And he could not help it because Mavis had a look that reminded him of his mother before she took him by the ear, he kneeled so that Mavis could remove whatever she’d found. He expected a spit wet handkerchief at this point. It would be best to get the humiliation over with. His eyes closed as she drew his head into her hands, brushing around his eyes. He shuddered for the feeling of conflicting sensations. He could feel her calloused hands, she’d removed her gloves. Her hands were warm, likely from touching a hot blade, and her touch was ever so light, circling delicately and she… “There isn’t anything on my face is there?”

He opened his eyes while the Herald kept his head in her palms, her thumbs softly rubbing under his eyes. “Only dark circles and haunted features. You need to get some sleep lad. Two hours Commander. I am going to bathe and then rest for 2 bells. You should do so as well.” Cullen stood, and Mavis withdrew her hands. Scarlet began to creep upwards across his face while Mavis nodded a bit and sighed. He wondered if he had failed somehow.

“I will…” Cullen had no way to accurately retort. Not with that look about the woman. Sharp eyes and a disapproving face or was it pitying? He felt like the short one… “I will see you in 2 bells. Perhaps...perhaps you are right.” He made his exit with a stiff nod. Dazed and tired. Weary to the point he took no notice of Rylen intercepting a missive or pulling back the flap of his tent. He would simply rest his eyes while the Herald took a short break to compose herself. Then he would explain proper decorum. He did not need mothering.

Mavis saluted Rylen who wore a smirk as he bowed with a cocky flourish. He was a sure-shit soldier and Cullen was lucky to have him. Finally entering Haven Mavis made for her cabin. A barrel in the back beckoned her. A simple rune heating the water as she shucked off her armour and peeled off road worn layers. It wasn’t the fancy long tub Josie had wanted to acquire but Mavis had no issue with a barrel bath. It was better than a wet rag or a river dip. 

After a week of fighting, bandits who were not mere bandits, lyrium deprived Templars and mages who had no clue how to deal with the outside world, she was going to take some joy and comfort where she could.

Silvi’s cryptic seer shit had been accurate, enough of a hint to get them on the right track. She’d not said anything to the group about the predictions. Silvi just wanted to be a crafter. Mavis understood. Her forge was far away, idle and cold. Her home and heart severed until she could fix the sky. At least they had not had to kill all the mages, some surrendered, some allowed for reason. The survivors had headed to Redcliffe to meet with the other rebel mages.

Submerged in warm water Mavis didn’t linger long, as sleep was more important than a long soak. Changing and braiding her damp hair were easy tasks. Crawling under the covers Mavis closed her eyes to a solid dreamless slumber. Her snoring huff like a bear’s growl, heard by all happening to pass too close to her little hut. Solas often placed sound wards attached to the Herald’s bedroll to dampen the noise. 

It was Cassandra who woke her. A strong knock to the door and her familiar voice drove Mavis from bed. Her hair in a damp sleep braid. She unlatched the door and waved the Seeker in. It took no time to switch from sleep clothes to a tunic and leggings. Josie would be disappointed. Mavis had seen the dress she’d acquired. It wasn’t bad or overly fancy but Mavis preferred pants or leggings, leathers or armor. “Did ya get your shoulder looked at Seeker?”

“I did. The balm you suggested worked quite well.” They walked together, a steady pace. Haven was ever expanding, new huts popping up and temporary shelters crowding gaps and alley paths. Humans and elves milled around. Mavis and Varric were among the few dwarfs. Cassandra wondered why the Maker had chosen a dwarf who did not believe. Perhaps it was a sign? Some hidden reason that she could not yet understand. Mavis was a good woman though. A strong fighter who pushed on despite old injuries and age. “You often tend to others. Andraste tended to those who needed help as well.”

“Your Andraste had kids right?” Mavis hummed in thought, she knew enough about the Chantry lore. Once she’d tried to believe, asked questions and took food from preaching Mothers and Sisters. 

“Yes, daughters. Many have claimed at times to descend from the one whom survived. Grabbing for power, or status.” 

“And she had to travel far for a greater purpose? Following her Maker right?” The Chantry doors opened and Mavis glanced at the old stones of the building, the sisters in their garbs. “She probably had to leave her daughters for their safety and she probably missed them, higher purpose or no.”

Cassandra’s steps faltered. She hadn't considered that perspective. Andraste had a great mission, her heart filled with love for the Maker. Then she recalled that Mavis had children. It unsettled her. Mavis tended to those closest to her, a good mother ...who was missing her children. “It is...interesting to consider Herald. I shall leave you now to speak with the council.” 

Mavis entered the war room, or what passed for the war room. Cullen looked a bit better, perhaps he had in fact rested. She would be headed off to Orlais to speak with some Mothers of the Chantry. Something was sure to go wrong. “ If Master Silverite arrives back in time I’d like to take her along. She was born in Orlais.”

Josephine took a note and hummed in thought “That could be arranged, the tower construction is nearing completion. By all accounts she is excellent at giving directions to the soldiers. It would also allow her to purchase any needed supplies for the projects we have around Haven.” 

Cullen leaned on the table, towering over the little bobbles and bits they were placing all over the map. “Corporal Vale describes Master Hale as efficient and skilled.” Mavis wondered if anyone had informed the Commander that Silvi was a mage. That might turn things sour if it was a sudden surprise yet Mavis was not about to say anything. Silvi could handle the Commander. She’d place a few wagers with Varric later. 

“Alright so I’ll take Solas, Cassandra, Varric and if she arrives in time Silverite with me. Meet with the Mothers. Gather supplies. Try to make connections and allies. Something’ll go shits up but we’ll see if it don’t all go wrong.” 

“Yes, that’ll do. We will make preparations, Herald.” Leliana was already headed for the door. Cullen and Josephine filed out and Mavis stared at the map. There were more pieces than when she’d left. More problems to solve. Taking an unassigned piece she toyed with it, setting it in a distant little nook of Ferelden that skirted Avaar territory. She stared at the marker and sighed. Grabbing it and leaving the room. Not yet. Not until the sky was back how it should be. 

What were the chances she could just go home afterwards? 

\----------

Mavis was a bloody cheat. Varric was impressed. The first few games soldiers had cycled in, and promptly lost their coin. The game had lost its appeal as they’d lost players so now it was just him and Bear cycling back and forth as they chatted. Neither of them was really trying to win at this point. It was more a game of out cheating each other and not getting caught in a trap. 

“You learn to play with the Carta Bear?”

“Had to earn my keep somehow. I weren’t too good at picking pockets.” 

“Huh, hustling cards. When did you get into the whole hired hand business?” Varric didn’t call Mavis out as she deftly drew one card from the discard pile and switched it to the main pile. He’d only seen because he’d been about to do the same thing.

“Hit my growth spurt earlier than most. I’d say by 10 I had a sword in hand though was mostly look-out stuff. Was skinny as a twig though. Temper too. Had something to prove. Chip in my shoulder. Ya know the type.” 

“Young and foolish. With a deathwish. What changed?” He could picture Mavis as an awkward dwarf. She was muscled now but still didn’t have the stockier build of other dwarf warriors. Her face was a bit more angular, her nose a little less wide. If she hadn’t cleaved though demons with a giant axe on their first meeting he would have assumed she was a rogue. It made sense as a younger skinny beanpole (for a dwarf) that she’d taken up the biggest weapon available to prove something. 

Mavis flicked a card into the discard pile. “I got older. Still a fool. Still reckless. Now my knees pop when I dash into fights. Death’s on my doorstep no need to chase after it.”

“That’s a bit fatalistic. You’re not that old Bear. Come on give me a number.” He hadn’t been able to pin an exact age. Mavis was older than him. By 10 or by 30 he hadn’t been able to determine. Some days she was haggard, criss crossed scars on a face with deep wrinkles, a scowl and furrowed brows. A face he’d seen on a lot of old soldiers and mercs. Yet at other moments the lines smoothed out, her eyes opened, impossibly large, making her look younger. 

“Storyweaver if I end up a craggy old hag in your tales…” Varric took the hand and Mavis slid coins across the table. She still had a sizable pile from the earlier soldiers so neither of them would be taking a loss tonight. Varric grinned as he slipped his winnings away. He also slid Mavis a tin as requested of her preferred pipe blend. 

“A hag? Never! An ornery Mother Bear...tempting.” Both grinned though Mavis plastered on a false scowl. She pulled her pipe out from a pouch at her side, Varric doing the same. 

It was all in good fun. They drank, they smoked, they talked as the tavern filled and the hour grew ever later. Music lilting in the background, nothing too upbeat or rowdy. Everything was pleasant. Until a drunk soldier harassed the elf minstrel. Grabbing her ear in such a way as to make the minstrel cry out in surprise and pain. Varric drew Bianca and fired a warning bolt. The soldier stepped back as Mavis turned and hopped out of her seat. Launching off an empty bench seat and the edge of a table. A spry old lady when pissed off. Mavis definitely should have been a rogue. Varric followed, flashing a reassuring smile at the minstrel who Flissa was escorting into the back, behind the bar counter.

Mavis’ first punch sent the soldier on his ass. “Blighted ballsack bastard.” The patrons made way, letting the Herald stalk towards the soldier. “I won’t have that kind of disrespect anywhere in Haven.” Could there not just be peace? Could she not find a place where her kids wouldn’t be harassed for the tips of their ears? Cullen shoved his way through the crowd, his hand grabbed Mavis’ wrist, stopping her from striking the soldier again. 

“What is going on?” Soldiers and patrons stepped back at the shout. Cullen kept his eyes on the soldier who was barely able to stand up, nose bloodied. He did not let go of Mavis until her arm went slack in his grip. 

“Your soldier assaulted a young elf minstrel.” Cullen stiffened at the accusation. Anger warping his features. Disbelief cleared as he noted Rylen was speaking with Flissa at the kitchen door. His second nodded. It was all he needed to confirm what the Herald had said.

“Herald, I will see to him. When she is ready I will apologize to the woman. This issue will be dealt with.” The soldier had sobered, he knew he was in trouble. Cullen’s gaze swept across the tavern, some soldiers not meeting his eyes, others just as angered as he. “It will not be repeated.” A promise and a threat depending on who heard him. 

“Commander, if ever I see your soldiers lay hands on anyone without consent or cause again, I will break their hands.” Her voice cut through the tavern, a heavy warning to those soldiers who shrunk even smaller, trying to evade notice. 

The drunk soldier was dragged out with Cullen issuing orders for all soldiers to clear out. Even the locals filed out with only a few travellers huddling at tables sipping their drinks quietly. Mavis talked to Flissa and made sure the young elf would be okay. 

“Come Varric. I need a decent drink. No offence to Flissa.” Mavis paid for some simple bread rolls and grabbed cups. Varric followed into Mavis’ room where she stoked the fire and dragged the table and stools into the warmth. She chewed her pipe for a moment. Aggravated, but beginning to calm down with each purposeful inhale. 

Varric took a seat and glanced around. There were hints of Mavis here and there but mostly the room served a utilitarian purpose. Not a home but a place to rest. Mavis set a metal flask wrapped in aged leather on the table, which immediately sparked Varric’s curiosity. “Curly will be good for his word, Bear.”

“I know. He’s a good lad. A little lost but he does try. ” 

Curly a lad? Varric was definitely writing this all down. The Commander of the Inquisition taken by the ear like a wayward child.

Tipping the flask Mavis poured two glasses of a red tinted whiskey. He could smell the deep aroma, like cinnamon and something sweet. “Just hits hard Storyweaver. They wouldn’t try that with a human. Silvi is right, I can’t bring my family here.” 

Varric swirled the glass, sipping it, the smell alone told him it wasn’t the type of alcohol a person should toss back. There was sharp taste on his tongue, fire burning down his throat but it was followed by a tart sweet taste. Something to soothe the burn. “What is this stuff? And where’d you get it  _ Carta _ ?”

Mavis snorted, “You’ve definitely heard of it. Rare whiskey, Carta in Ferelden has the majority of it. Got to pay a ton for it.”

“No shit? How’d you get it?”

Mavis smiled and leaned forward. “I told ya how Silvi got me outta the Carta, I had debts. Strings they could tug. I settled my debts by supplying them with a very large and rare shipment of Cherry’s Flame. Coming to the Conclave was them asking me a favor. Kind of a… final breaking o’ all those ties. No feelings, no dark shivs in the night.”

There was silence as Varric processed and casually sipped an extremely hard to get alcohol. “This is going in the book, but you didn’t answer. Where’d you get it?”

“That’s easy.” She was smiling. Varric recognized the look, it was playful mischief. It was one of those moments where her sunset eyes widened and she looked younger. Mavis drew out the moment holding her glass and just enjoying the familiar scent, the flavor that lingered. Her faraway thoughts returned and she focused back on him. “I married the distiller.”

\-------------

“Stones shore my bones. Heavy and firm. Hold my stance in sundering quakes.” The words were said in private as she waited on the Seeker to arrive. A soft featherfall of snow had coated the rudimentary training area outside Haven. A chill ever persistent. “I am forged in fires unknown. My metal is sharp, heart burning. Stone in the forge breathes, air to the tempest lungs.Temper me, plunged and practiced. Strike true.” 

Cassandra kneeled beside Mavis, and began her own prayers. Mavis waited patiently for the Seeker to finish. They both moved into stretching and warm-ups going through forms. “You have said you are not Andrastian. Who do you pray to? Some Dwarf god?”

“I pray to the warmth of a forge. My hammer on steel, the strength of a blade. I pray to the stone in my blood.”

“So you have no god… just stone and a forge?”

“No god needed. I have faith in what I know, in what I find beauty and strength in. I don’t need a Chant or the Shaperate to provide me a focus I can never truly know.” Mavis tossed Cassandra a sword and shield. Her usual practice sword was absent from the rack. What would she use today?

“I cannot say I understand ...Herald, no more war hammers!” Cassandra broke off from her religious discussion because Mavis was hefting a very heavy hammer. The Herald had used a similar hammer against the Templar camp. It had been disturbing to watch the dwarf pivot and collide with shields and sword arms, in a cacophony of broken limbs, with steel bending into the flesh of the Templars. It was not a quick death, Mavis had to swing again, knocking heads and...the image was messy. So no hammers. Mavis needed a blade, not blunt force. 

Mavis was still puzzled about the squeamish nature of the Inquisition. Brain matter wasn’t any more disgusting than evisceration. Gutting and removing limbs from an enemy was fine but ‘Maker forbid’ you break their spines or arms. The enemy died either way. She picked up a large axe instead, hefting it with little problem as it was not nearly as heavy as her current main weapon. 

Cullen allowed his soldiers to gather at the edges of the sparring ring. Cassandra had taken a clear victory last time. The Herald hadn’t properly wielded a weapon for quite some time. It had been a decent fight though and Cullen himself was eager to see which woman would concede this time. 

There was no throwing of taunts, no jesting, the woman took their stances, nodded and began. Cassandra’s sword met Mavis’ axe. Despite being training weapons the strength of each warrior ensured that a hit would still cause serious injury. 

Mavis was very good at pivoting, darting around and kicking up loose snow. Her braid whipping in the air. 

“Soldiers, observe. The Seeker uses her shield not just defensively. She takes space, gains ground, uses it offensively.” Rylen pointed out how Cassandra would move into a strike from Mavis, and shove the dwarf back. 

“The Herald in contrast, is not simply using brute force. Watch her feet, her hips, she moves with momentum, and that puts easier force into each strike yet…” Rylen chuckled as Cassadra swiped at the Herald who was mid-swing. Mavis leaned and tucked a shoulder so that her center of gravity changed so swiftly that she nearly danced around and under the Seeker’s guard. The Seeker was barely able to kick back and away. Any of the new soldiers would have been dead. “She is never without the ability to quickly guard or change direction.” 

Mavis breathed hard. Her chest rising and falling as she circled the Seeker. A soft throb emanating from her arm, and up into her chest. Damn mark. Teeth clenched, Mavis adjusted her grip. At least the Seeker seemed just as winded. Sweat damp hair clung in gross clumps to her face. 

The women collided, each digging heels into what was now a slushy ring of mud and ice. It looked like the Seeker would gain the win as Mavis boots slipped in the slick environment. Cassandra had size to leverage on the dwarf. Mavis wasn’t going down without a final fight. Anger coiled in the dwarf who smirked. And let out a roar of fury that unsettled and surprised Cassandra. Several recruits stepped back while Rylen shrugged towards Cullen. It was enough to gain ground, suddenly acting in twisted unpredictable movements, a flurry of spins and a shove that sent both women sprawled out in the icy filth. The battle summarily ended, a tie. 

It was Cullen who walked towards her. Mavis stared upwards until offered a hand to stand. Mud slopped off bits of her armor. The Seeker approached, wiping off patches of slush. 

He’d seen that technique before. “I didn’t realize you’d trained as a berserker, Herald.” 

“Don’t channel it much nowadays, too fucking old.” Her heart was beating quickly, and she was damn tired. She’d pushed it . Got too cocky. 

“Indeed. I now wish I could have seen you as such in your younger days. Are you well?” Cassandra noted that Mavis was a bit pale, her grip on the war axe shaky. 

Mavis rolled her shoulders, wincing as the pain from the mark emanated to her neck and jaw. “Ya, just the damned mark, spasming. Looks like I’m too old to be flashing across the field in a sea of carnage.”

“Be that as it may. You are still formidable Herald.” Cullen took the practice weapon, brows furrowed, at the weight. How the woman hefted it so easily in battle was certainly impressive. “Perhaps if the mark is causing pain you should seek out Ser Solas?” A very large glob of mud dislodged from Mavis’s hair and hit the ground with a squelch. 

Cassandra grunted, Mavis grunted back, then clucked her tongue. Cassandra made a short agreeable hum. Cullen was very confused. “I’ll send a messenger and have Ser Solas investigate...after you’ve had time to clean up?”

“Sounds fine.” With that Mavis stalked off, fist clenched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always liked the berserker class from Origins. It's a path that can be learned and doesn't require blood from dragons or such.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time progresses, and towers take shape.

_ Pride searches, paws in the snow. _

_ Chilled circles for a dreamless dreamer’s scent cannot be caught _

_ She is cold and closed, rest not slumber _

_ Hurting and torn, broken pieces, and a mangled memory of what was.  _

_ What is, will be, what can, will be built. _

\--

The crank turned, producing a popping sound as each divot in the gear and pulley system secured the heavy load that the soldiers were raising onto the last section of the tower. It was a warm day and several soldiers had tossed off their shirts and turned up the hems of their breeches. Grunts and good-humoured barbs accompanied hammer strikes. 

Havir’s task for the 2nd tower was to build the more complex individual parts. So far the elf had done adept work. There were some issues such as stumbling over using new tools for angled joinery but after a bit of instruction, he had understood the concept. By now the elf carried a toolbelt heavy with chisels and all manner of new tools. He had tried to give the tools back but Master Hale had always wandered away or flashed a smile with a shrug. 

Thinking about her… She was a wonderful woman. Her hands were so skilled, and she talked to him like he was worthwhile. Havir imagined that Master Hale understood the prejudice elves faced and really cared about changing things. She’d told more than a few soldiers off for using slurs or treating elf scouts as personal messengers. Havir was fatigued and sore from the work but he looked forward to each day. There was so much to learn and with Master Hale, it seemed like everything mattered. He mattered. Havir felt himself blush, his ears and cheeks turning pink while he leaned over the piece he was currently shaping with the planing tool Master Silvi had loaned him. A cold hand startled him as it rested on his shoulder. 

“Nearly done with tower two. Ya ready to oversea tower 3?” Silvi leaned past Havir to grab a scroll case. Havir squeaked, and mumbled a reply, enthusiastically retreating into the distraction of his work. Certainly Master Hale had to be aware of how close she was? She smelt of ash, varnish, something sharp as well but pleasing. 

“Of...o-of course Master Hale. The ground was readied even.” He looked sideways to see Silvi leaned back and reading through the parchment, completely uninterested. He sighed. It wasn’t like he wanted the attention of a shem woman. That would bring only trouble after all but he maybe kind of hoped? She was very tall, and strong and that was… he didn’t know how to interpret the feeling. Her work though… that was masterful. He wanted to learn everything, to bask in the beauty she created. Details and dainty whirls, she could bring the grains to life with such ease as if the wood spoke its shape to her. Truly gifted, she could create so much more than what the Inquisition had assigned. Did they even know what they’d acquired? 

“That’s good. By day’s end tower two will be finished. I need to go chat with Dennet later today.” Silvi scanned the document, checking the tasks that needed to be done. Most of the work could be assigned to the local crafters or soldiers but a few of the repairs and requests would need a bit more skill then was currently available. Havir overseeing the 3rd tower freed her to assist in other areas for the time being. “ I’ve already had the custom components completed. I’ll be going with the scouts to oversee projects around the Hinterlands but if needed I should be reachable through Inquisition scouts. Any trouble with the men go to Corporal Vale. Don’t let them call you knife-ear or rabbit.” 

“Yes ma’am!” He was nervous about overseeing such a large project. Silvi had been patient and he knew how things were supposed to go but he feared that the soldiers wouldn’t listen. He had no idea how to order people around. Windom typically grunted and tossed out short clipped orders that he had expected everyone to get done. Silvi tended to meet with the soldiers and go over the day’s plan, then join in as needed or offer additional instructions. Shems didn’t take kindly to rabbits giving orders. Yet, Master Hale was giving him this task, he could not fail her! He needed to figure it out.

The work area was empty when Havir looked up from his thoughts. How did she disappear so easily?

Redcliffe farms had the nostalgic scent of manure and hay. Without rifts and wolves, the area was quaint, little patches of tilled and turned land, and small pastures for grazing animals. Concentrating mana and extending herself Silvi glanced around. A few wisps fluttered around, little moments and memories that yet lingered, foggy to her sight with the crepe paper-thin veil. Her sight took in the folding currents of mana until a leeching void caught her interest. Something enchanted but dormant. That’d be where the elvhen trinket hid. If it wouldn’t arouse suspicion she might deign to activate the darn thing. At least, for now, the latent magics weren’t terrible. 

How to mention it? Something along the lines of…’ Hey spirits told me there’s an old thing in a ransacked cabin among the druffalo patties’. If Solas could use ‘I saw it in the Fade’ Silvi was going to use ‘spirits whispered about it’ just as much. Most people didn’t question magic simply due to lack of understanding. Mages know what they’re doing or are cavorting with demons to sacrifice innocent muggles in nefarious blood rituals. Closing her eyes Silvi relaxed and let her mana lazily spread out from her. 

With all the work she’d not had time to tend to her hair and it was showing. Silvi winced as she pulled on one of her braids, following it up to the root. Once in Haven, she’d need to re-do everything, maybe trim it. Hopefully, Elaina or Seanna had some of the ingredients for a decent hair treatment. There was some Thedas rice in her possessions so perhaps a fermented rice water rinse? Isabela had nicked her hair balm and Silvi did not feel like putting in a requisition for Rivain or Antivan beauty products. Vanity aside, Silvi was visiting Dennet for a reason. 

“Greeting! I’m Master Hale of the Inquisition. Someone needed a cart taken care of?” She knew it was Dennet, but had yet to officially meet the man. He’d come to watch the tower's construction on occasion but had mostly spoken with Harding or Corporal Vale. 

“About time you showed up.” A grumpy old man, with worn hands, crossed his arms.

“Apologies. I did just oversee building two towers, Master Dennet.”

“Huh, didn’t know Inquisition was hiring Rivaini pirates” His eyes flicked to the tattoos visible on Silvi’s lower arms and the sword at her hip. 

  
  


“Pirate, Master carpenter, same difference really.” She pulled her lips back, smiling with a flash of teeth. Dennet could be an old arsehole by all accounts. Not a bad man but a rough man with little filter. It was enough of a hint that the old man backed down, loosening his posture. 

“Well, suppose you’ll do. Got a few carts in need of fittings. You bring your tools?” They walked and talked, looping around the stable and down a path that Silvi did not recall from the game. Thedas was evermore larger than what the games had shown. There were two carts and a scattering of old parts set beside what was a tool shed of sorts. 

“Ya, I see. I can get ya a new wheel, that other cart needs a new axle though and I ain’t a smith. You got a spare on hand?” She bent down and took a good look at the cart with the rusted out axel. It was supposed to swivel a bit “Or I can make it locked in, will lose some o’ ya control. Blacksmith in Haven might be able to fix it up better but I can get both carts movin’ dat good fer you?” Silvi was leaning heavily into a country accent, imitating Mavis rather than annoying Dennet with her usual light Orlesian lilt. 

Standing back up Silvi checked over everything else and began to organize materials. Normally she’d need to make a cartwheel back at the logging stand but magic was a wonderful thing. Almost as good as her mourned for power tools. 

“That’ll work. Just get them moving. You need anything, grab Seanna, my daughter. She should be in the stables.” Silvi shook her head at the man as he turned and left. He really was quite a curt old man. He knew horses though and that was what was important. Horses, she intended to build the larger stables in the back area of Haven but keep the smaller stable area, at the front for on hand horses. The bulk of them would be easily led into the mountains when trouble brewed. Maybe she could manage a storage shed? Or put up a scout cabin somewhere in the upper mountain areas.

It was well past noon as Silvi rolled up her sleeves and pulled her hair back into a headwrap. The warmer weather was a blessing. Her brow furrowed as deft hands slipped along the available lumber until she located something that would work.

Heat and steam, and pressure. Simple applications that normally required specialized tools for precision work. 

The old wheel worked as a guide. Magic gathered around her, and the tattoos along her arms glowed. Her spells wove together in a chain of commands. Simple elements, with direct applications. Fire in her palm and water floating, gathering in her fingertips, evaporating in the flame’s blue heat. Next was rotating the lumber to warm and twist it into position, bending it with a continuous glide of fingers. Slow and steady so as not to stress the wood. Make it limber. The air became hazy, mist and steam billowing outwards. Little droplets condensed along Silvi’s skin and froze in patches as her nature fought the flames at her fingers. 

Another glyph lit up and Silvi felt her muscles and tendons fill with adrenaline, a surge of power and strength to force the now malleable lumber into the proper shape, following the process with ice and slow tapered cooling, the pressure of her hands forming a proper wheel. The wood bit into her hands as numbness set in and blisters broke along her palms. She exhaled and her lips tinged blue in the wake of frosty breath. Ice numbing her skin, slowly slipping down her throat, closing her airway with each exhalation. This was her magic, a tool for her trade. Magic with a price, magic with a risk, magic with a limit. 

  
  


Exhaustion weighed on her as she completed the wheel, adding the spokes and fittings. Silvi leaned against the cart and shivered despite the heat of the day. Her clothes were damp due to the frost along her skin melting. She dabbed away some of the moisture and rolled down her sleeves. Time to take a break and talk to Seanna once the ice receded from her vocal cords.

The woman was grooming a horse when Silvi approached. “Seanna?” The woman had a bubbly air like energy drinks personified. She was probably the girl pulling mulish townsfolk out of their tavern seats to join a dance. 

“That’s me! You must be the carpenter. What can I do for you, Master Hale?” 

“Silvi is fine. I just finished making a new cartwheel. Takin’ a break.” Silvi took a swig of her waterskin and leaned back against a stable gate, patting the mare who happened to sniff at her. “I do have a question though if ya wouldn’t mind?”

“Well ask and I’ll do what I can to answer.” 

“It’s ridiculous but...you wouldn’t happen to have any hair balms fer sale would ya?” Silvi motioned to her headwrap and dark skin. “Haven’t found nothin’ that’ll work proper in Ferelden.”

“Oh! Ya, it’s kind of hard. I keep my hair short but …” Seanna lowered her voice a bit. “Sometimes I’ll trade with a few of the Chasind who come up from the wilds. I have a spare I could sell you.”

Haircare! Of course, the supposed wild barbarians would be the ones who actually used hair products. Living in a swamp, they probably even bathed frequently lest they risk infections or various fungal growths. “I thought the Blight ruined the Wilds?”

“Yes, but there are areas and regions across the wilds I think?” The conversation progressed and Silvi helped brush down a few horses, along with exchanging some coin for the much-appreciated hair oil. It was a tincture that smelled vaguely of wood smoke and bloodroot. Not terribly pungent but different from the spicy herbal recipe in Rivain. Seanna was an interesting woman with ambitions that diverged from simply following in her father’s footsteps. By the time Silvi felt up to getting the rest of the work done she found Havir outside, hands behind his back. 

Havir had noticed some flowers. They were pretty, something his mother might have liked. As it was he had picked a handful before thinking and that had brought him to the stables because...Silvi was a woman, and women liked flowers, right? It didn’t actually mean anything, it was just a thank you gesture. He stood awkwardly near the stables, hiding the bouquet and wondering what to tell the woman. Certainly, he couldn’t ask for anything that would be improper. He wasn’t a lovestruck youth (or so he believed). He knew she had to have some interest what with the touches and all the encouraging words. Or was he overthinking? What if Silvi was just as the rumours said, a Rivaini and thus more open with affection?

So caught up in his thoughts Havir failed to notice the docile mare that was slowly nibbling on the bouquet he had clutched behind himself. Seanna noticed, as did Silvi. The mare was rather pleased with her snack.

“Oh? Havir? I suppose it is growing late. Did you come to get me for something? I’ve a few hours of work yet.” 

“I...I…” He flailed and pulled out the flowers which were now merely stems “For you!” He waited with eyes closed but after a moment of silence opened them and wanted to hide. The stems falling from his hands. “Oh...I...haha...just a joke...umm… Andraste's knickers...please just let the earth swallow me…” 

Choosing to ignore what had just transpired for the lad's sake was likely the gentlest option. “Well, I’m glad you're here. I’ll get the carts finished faster with a second set of hands.” Silvi turned and Havir followed head down, muttering to himself. 

Seanna had a hand over her mouth, trying very hard not to laugh at the poor elf. 

The evening was drawing ever closer, the wind shifting so that a breeze floated through, stirring the long grass in the pastures. A wave of movement, rippling like yellow and green-tinted waves. With the wheel made it was more a matter of lifting and wedging the cart in order to install a new wheel and adjust the joinery to create a rigid wagon until the fancy rotational bits could be fixed up at Haven. It didn’t take as long with Havir’s assistance. Dennet was pleased and Silvi was exhausted so of course, she agreed to Seanna’s race around the farm. 

“Havir, run on ahead while there’s light. I’m staying in the nearer farm camp with Scout Harding. Remember tower 3 is all yours beginning tomorrow!” She might have worried about the young elf getting back safely but he had a wisp of cunning guiding his feet. He’d not be noticed before he found safety. 

“He’s kind of adorable,” Seanna called back from the stables where she had retreated to hide her snickering. 

“I know. Like a schoolboy crush on the teacher.” Shaking her head Silvi turned to see what horse Seanna had pulled out for a runaround. The carpenter was left gaping, momentarily stunned. “Oh, he’s a big one.” 

The horse was tall and didn’t seem to be a purebred, or anything fancy. He was healthy, well-groomed and gorgeous as far as horses went. He was a mottled mix of black and grey. Muscular, and definitely more of a working horse than a racing horse. He was already tacked up. 

“I assume you know how to ride?” Seanna quirked a brow as Silvi inelegantly mounted the Forder. The woman leaned a bit too forward and ended up with a face full of mane and a stiff head shake from the tolerant horse. 

“Basics yes. Been a while since more than easy trail riding though.” Silvi replied with a pitched squeak and white-knuckled grip on the front of the saddle. Shaky breaths. She was not going to die by horse. Not today! Seanna took pity and gripped the reins, softly stroking the stallion’s muzzle until Silvi could loosen her death grip. 

It took a moment but eventually, Silvi sat up and shifted awkwardly in the saddle. “I’m fine now.” Seanna released her hold and Silvi tentatively directed the horse to slowly circle the pen. Seanna in the meantime mounted her own horse, a much sleeker and shorter mare. “Lead on oh great horse mistress~ lest I send myself arse first into a canyon.” 

“We wouldn’t want that! Who would fix our carts?” The two cantered along a circular path, idly talking of their lives while Silvi re-acquainted herself with riding. Soon both women were riding around at a proper gallop, racing for each of the markers. Seanna at an advantage with her speedier and more agile mare. Silvi laughed as she was trounced repeatedly. They dismounted and led the horses into the stables, taking care to brush them down. 

“Much appreciated Seanna. I best be off. Work to do in the morning.” Dennet was waiting outside the house as Seanna joined his side. The man’s face softened momentarily. He tossed over a tied burlap sack that contained some fresh vegetables.

“Saw the carts. Good work.” A man of few words he waved a hand dismissively and wandered into his house, Seanna following behind.

It was dark, but the moons reflected enough light that her eyes caught the nuances, seeping images not the same as in true light. The refractive quality of eyes capable of low light vision. The camp wasn’t far, and she could even see the flicker of the fires in the distance. There weren’t many in the camp, just scouts. Scout Harding hunched over a map with letters weighted down. She spared a glance as Silvi entered the camp but went back to writing something out. 

Silvi was reminded she hadn’t eaten once again as she passed a pot of mystery stew, set near the fire to keep warm. She handed off the sack to a wandering scout. Absently she grabbed a bowl and took a practical scoop. It was warm in her hands, the heat soothing to the aches of the day’s work. Even if she could taste nothing of each spoonful the smell lingered and drew up happy memories of other gatherings. Harding joined her not long after. 

“Orders came. Looks like I’ll be going to the Storm Coast next to set up camp.”

The Storm Coast. A drizzly mountainous nightmare. That could only mean that Mavis would be meeting with the Iron Bull soon. Spoon to her lips Silvi tried to keep a straight face. “Bring rain gear. It’s always raining. And chilly. I went through there a few years ago, for some old pine, there was a group of bandits? Something organized, dunno. Keep eyes out. Oh, giants and I recall dragonlings.” 

“Good to know. Any chance you can tag along?” Harding raised an eyebrow, the shadows cast by the flames overemphasizing the expression. Several other scouts milled around, walking with packs or tending to supply caches. A few plopped down around the fire, after dishing out a helping of mystery stew. 

Silvi spoke around the spoon in her mouth, letting the handle wobble with each word. “Do you wanna explain to Lady Nightingale or your Ambassador?” Just the mention of the Nightingale left a few of the scouts shivering. No one wanted to counter Leliana’s orders. Harding though tapped her spoon on her bowl’s edge, considering the options.

“Right. Maybe not.” Harding decided with a shrug. 

“No worries If I don’t end up there I’ll be sending someone I trust to take care of ya.”

“The elf apprentice? Havir?” Silvi grinned, Scout Harding was not to be underestimated. 

“Such is his woe. His crush is adorable but as with most it will quickly fade when he’s cursing my orders.” Harding stared at Silvi, catching the flicker of her eyes in the firelight. Interesting. Harding felt suddenly very bad for the poor man. 

“You get a lot of that?” Silvi wasn’t exactly ugly but she was angular, frightening, and not wholly the picture of femininity. The crafter had noticeable scars, she had patches of skin that had been burned long ago and healed but left rough. She definitely wasn’t a typical definition of beauty. 

Silvi slurped a few spoonfuls and considered Harding’s inquiry. Silvi ran a finger over the burn scars along her jaw that continued to parts of her neck, the one’s Harding had been observing. “I treat my workers with respect they often have never had, they admire my skills and confuse that admiration and curiosity as to my unique appearance for actual interest. By the way, did Leliana manage to contact any of my former workers?” 

Harding set her bowl down and rummaged through some of the missives, reading over the words “Ya, a Celena and a Qunari named Song?” 

“No way!” Silvi stood and reached for the missive, pausing. Shit, she probably wasn’t allowed to see the paper. Harding though shrugged and passed it over. The words were written in cypher and Silvi snorted, as Harding laughed and took the paper back. “Okay well… Song is a little shit but fuck is he a good craftsman and he’ll help you fight if needed. Has some massive lungs, he sings, it's delightful. Celena won’t be out in the field, she’s missing a leg but her detailing is so muwha~” Her lips smacked in a ridiculous air kiss that caused a few short chuckles. “She’ll be working making gifts and fancy spancy things for the Ambassador’s nobles.” 

This was excellent news! Song was perfect for certain bridge projects in the future. Song would also keep Celena safe when shit goes sour. 

“Oh! There was another message for you. They want you to go with Dennet on the first rush of horses.” Harding was up and flipping through missives, looking over the details. 

“Huh, the last tower won’t be done… Oh… Ms.Spymaster already knows I’ve got Havir overseeing it? He could have problems though, was going to hang around until it was done and do some side work in the camps.” And not be in Haven while Solas was there. 

Harding shook her head, “Lady Nightingale is leaving some friendly scouts to ensure Havir isn’t sabotaged if some construction issue arises that needs your input the tower will just be halted briefly. Your presence is required in Haven.” 

“With the intake of refugees, I guess they’ll be needing houses, along with defences.” The rush was odd. Haven should be fine at the moment, there were soldiers and local crafters who could tend to immediate needs. “That’s still 2 days out though so what do you need for the Storm Coast camp?”

“Oh! I have a few ideas…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo~ Got busy with teaching students before final exams. Then the holidays hit. 
> 
> I was trying to think of where Silvi would get products for maintaining her hair, as she's quite attentive to her appearance. Would she make them? She could but being that she's spent a large amount of time in Rivain and Antiva she is used to being able to shell out some coin for specific mixes, likely with preferred scents. In Ferelden I wondered if those products would be on shelves? I figure the Chasind actually would be a good source besides asking for special order in a market/apothecary. Hair is important.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment!


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